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POEMS 



NARRATIVE AND LYRICAL 



c^ ,^ 



POEMS 



NARRATIVE AND LYRICAL, 



BY 



WILLIAM MOTHERWELL 



FOURTH EDITION 



BOSTON: 
WILLIAM D. TICKNOR & COMPANY. 

M DCCC XLVI. 



^^% 



6t, 






BOSTON: 

PRINTED BY THURSTON, TORRY & CO. 

31 Devonshire Street. 



PREFACE 

TO THE AMERICAN EDITION 



How such a genuine literary treasure as Motherwell's Poems 
should have so long escaped the notice of publishers, ever on the 
lookout for what they may appropriate and again lucratively 
disperse, — how so rare an exotic should have been until now 
neglected in the daily indiscriminate transplantation of so many 
fruit-bearing and barren trees, — of choice flowers and unsightly 
weeds, is difficult to explain ; but so it has been. From this 
circumstance, and the scarcity of the only edition ever published, 
these poems are known to but few, or if to many, only to a 
partial extent, from occasional reprints in newspapers of the 
day ; and of their great merit, — a merit sufficient to place them 
among the choicest productions of their class, — the literary 
public are mostly ignorant. Varied in style and subject, the 
author seems always at home and at ease ; whether he sings of 
love or battle, he is equally in spirit ; his poetry is the same full 
stream, whether it flow quietly amid myrtle groves or foam 
along a battle-field, bearing upon its bosom a Norseman's fleet. 
En his Scandinavian poetry the spirit of an ancient Scald seems 
in truth to peal forth. The notes are not those of a soft lute 
from silken string or silver wire, but are tones wrung from one 



VI PREFACE. 

of their own rude harps, sinew-strung, whose measures are 
marked by the sword-struck shield, and whose pauses are filled 
by the shout of the warriors or the roar of the keel-cleft wave. 
The selection of the pure Saxon, and the perfect adaptation of 
its rich, full accents to the sense in ' The Battle-Flag of Sigurd,' 
and ' The Sword Chant of Thorstein Raudi,' is particularly 
admirable, and the thorough manner in which the author enters 
into the untutored spirit of the Norse Warrior in ' The Wooing 
Song of Jarl Egill Skallagrim,' is equally worthy of note. The 
Scandinavian Sea-King does not come like a modern lover, filled 
■with protestations of his own unworthiness. Hear his manly 
confidence ; — 

^ Ay, Daughter of Einar, 
Right tall mayst thou stand, 
It is a Vikingir 
Who kisses thy hand.' 

He offers no flowers, he promises no rich jewels ; — 

' Gifts yet more princely 

Jarl Egill bestows, \, 

For girdle his great arm 

Around thee he throws ; 

The bark of a sea-king 

For palace, gives he. 

While mad waves and winds shall 

Thy true subjects be.' 

To the last, no puling sentiment, — no unmanly flattery escapes 
his lips. He neither compares her to a gem or a flower, nor 
exalts her to an angel or divinity ; but tells her — 

* Fair Daughter of Einar 
Deem high of the fate 
That makes thee, like this blade, 
Proud Egill's loved mate.' 



PREFACE. Vll 

The remarks of the author in the dedication, concerning the 
knowledge of Norse poetry, do not justly apply in this country, 
as it is but lately that our attention has been turned to it, princi- 
pally through productions and translations of professor Long- 
fellow. It was therefore at first contemplated adding a glossary 
to this edition ; but it was found, that to the imitation of the old 
Scottish ballad, almost a verbatim translation would have to be 
given, increasing the size of the book unduly. Besides this' 
much danger would be incurred of insulting many readers by 
explanations of words, which, although seldom met with in gen- 
eral use, might, from their particular course of reading, be quite 
familiar ; so that the same conclusion was arrived at to which the 
author himself had previously come, — to leave it as it is, and 
trust that the interest which the reader will take in what he 
does understand, will induce him to seek for the easily attained 
explanation of what he may not. 

* ' Of " Jeanie Morrison," " Wearie's Well," and " My Heid is 
like to rend, Willie," it were idle now to speak ; they are amongst 
the most pathetic effusions of the Scottish muse — full of a soft vol- 
uptuous tenderness of feeling, and steeped in a rich tissue of warm 
poetical coloring, like a transparent veil over a weeping beauty. 
In another style of poetical composition, Motherwell has rarely 
been excelled — the sentimental and graceful vers de societ6. Of 
such are "Love's Diet," " Could love impart," &c. In a light airi- 
ness, and graceful flexibility of language, and in a pointed but 
not harsh brevity of diction, in unison with a certain gaiety and 
feminine elegance of thought, they appear to us to be perfect of 
their kind. 



* The following paragraphs are from 'The Laird of Logan, or Anecdotes 
and Tales illustrative of the Wit and Humor of Scotland,' to which Moth- 
erwell contributed. 



Vlll PREFACE. 

' The events in the life and fortunes of a man of letters, are 
seldom of so salient a character, or of such a stimulating variety, 
as to form the basis of a narrative, the interest of which will 
extend beyond the circle of his more intimate friends and asso- 
ciates. 

'Mr. Motherwell was born in the city of Glasgow, on the 13th 
of October, 1797, His family came from Stirlingshire, where 
they resided for several generations, on a small property belong- 
ing to them, called Muirmill. Early in life he was transferred to 
the care of an uncle in Paisley. There he received the principal 
part of a rather liberal education, and there he began the career 
of a citizen of the world, as an apprentice to the profession of 
law. So great was the confidence reposed in him, that at the 
early age of twenty-one he was appointed Sheriff-Clerk-Depute 
at Paisley — a situation very respectable, and of considerable 
responsibility, though by no means lucrative. In 1828, he became 
editor of the Paisley Advertiser, a journal wherein he zealously 
advocated Tory politics, to which he had long previously shown 
his attachment. During the same year, he conducted the Paisley 
Magazine — a periodical of local as well as general interest, and 
which contained many papers of a rare and curious character. 
In 1829, he resigned the office of Sheriff-Clerk-Depute, and ap- 
plied himself exclusively to the management of the newspaper, 
and to literary pursuits. 

* In the beginning of 1830, he appeared on a more important 
theatre, and in a more conspicuous character. He Avas engaged 
as editor of the Glasgow Courier — a journal of long standing, 
of respectable circulation, and of the Ultra-Tory school of poli- 
tics. Mr. Motherwell conducted this newspaper with great abil- 
ity, and fully sustained, if he did not at times outgo, its extreme 
opinions. From the time of his accepting this very responsible 
situation, to the day of his death — a period of five eventful and 



PREFACE. IX 

troubled years — during which the fever of party politics raged 
with peculiar virulence in the veins of society, it is universally 
conceded, by those who were opposed to his political opinions, 
as well as by the members of his own party, that he sustained 
his views with singular ability and indomitable firmness ; and 
if, at times, with a boldness and rough energy, both rash and 
unwise, the obvious sincerity and personal feeling of the writer 
elevated him far above the suspicion of being actuated by vulgar 
or mercenary motives. Motherwell was of small stature, but 
very stout and muscular in body — accompanied, however, with 
a large head, and a short thick neck and throat — the precise 
character of physical structure the most liable to the fatal access 
of the apoplectic stroke. Accompanied by a literary friend, on 
the first of November, 1835, he had been dining in the country, 
about a couple of miles from Glasgow, and, on his return home, 
feeling indisposed, he went to bed. In a few hours thereafter he 
awakened, and complained of pain in the head, which increased 
so much as to render him speechless. Medical assistance was 
speedily obtained ; but, alas ! it was of no avail — the blow was 
struck, and the curtain had finally fallen over the life and for- 
tunes of William Motherwell. — One universal feeling of regret 
and sympathy seemed to extend over society, when the sudden 
and premature decease of this accomplished poet, and elegant 
writer, became known. His funeral was attended by a large 
body of the citizens, by the most eminent of the learned and 
literary professions, and by persons of all shades of political 
opinion. He was interred in the Necropolis of Glasgow, not far 
from the resting-place of his fast friend, Mr. Andrew Henderson ; 
and the writer of this brief memoir will long remember the feel- 
ings of deep regret with which he beheld the long procession of 
mourners winding its way up the steep ascents of that romantic 
place of graves, with the mortal remains of his private and liter- 
ary friend, although firm political opponent. 



X PREFACE. 

' For the information of such of our readers as are not ac- 
quainted with the locality, we may mention, that the place of 
his sepulture is well fitted for the grave of a poet. It is a small 
piece of level ground, above which bold masses of rock, crowned 
with trees and shrubs of various kinds, ascend to a considerable 
height ; and below, the broken ground, richly wooded, and brist- 
ling with monumental columns and other erections, slopes beau- 
tifully down to the banks of a small lake or dam, terminated by a 
weir, over which its waters foam and fret at all seasons of the 
year. 

^ We hope, ere long, that some memorial of our gifted friend 
will rise amid these congenial shades (where some of the best 
dust in Glasgow now reposes,) to refresh the eye of friendship, 
and tell the wandering stranger of "the inhabitant who sleeps 
below." 

' In the year 1827, whilst at Paisley, he published his " Min- 
strelsy, Ancient and Modern" — a work which raised him at 
once to a high rank as a literary antiquarian. The introduction, 
a long and singularly interesting document, exhibits the writer's 
extensive acquaintance with the history of the ballad and roman- 
tic literature of Scotland — and independent of its merits as a 
historical and critical disquisition, is in itself a piece of chaste 
and elegant composition, and vigorous writing. Soon after that 
he became editor of the Paisley Magazine, and contributed 
some of the sweetest efiusions of his muse to enrich its pages — 
efiusions which now began to interest and concentrate the public 
attention, until, in 1832, a volume of his poems was published 
by Mr. David Robertson, Glasgow, which fully established his 
reputation as one of the sweet singers of his native land. A few 
months previous to the publication of his poems, another proof of 
the fertile versatility of his genius was afforded in an elaborate 
and able preface, which he contributed, to enrich a collection of 



PREFACE. XI 

Scottish Proverbs by his friend Mr. Andrew Henderson. In this 
essay, Motherwell exhibited a profound acquaintance with the 
proverbial antiquities of Scotland, and a fine and delicate tact in 
the management of a somewhat difficult subject. The style is 
equally elegant and vigorous, and shows him a master of prose, 
as of poetic composition. In 1836, an edition of the works of 
Robert Burns, in five volumes, was published, edited by him, in 
conjunction with the Ettrick Shepherd. A considerable part of 
the life, with a large amount of notes, critical and illustrative, 
were supplied by Motherwell, with his usual ability and copious 
knowledge of his subject : but literary partnerships are seldom 
very fortunate in their consequences, and this was not fated to 
be an especial example of a contrary result. 

* Mr. Motherwell was also a considerable contributor to the 
literary periodical — " The Day " — of which due mention has 
already been made, and which, for some time, commanded a 
brilliant range of western talent. His memoirs of Bailie Pirnie 
formed one of the most amusing and masterly papers in that 
journal. It is understood he left behind a considerable amount 
of manuscript ; and, amongst other matter, a work embodying 
the wild legends of the ancient northern nations — a department 
of antiquarian research to which he was much devoted.* It is 
to be hoped, that a selection at least from these manuscripts will 
be laid before the public, as an act of justice to his memory. 

* In mixed society, Motherwell was rather reserved, but ap- 
peared to enjoy internally '' the feast of reason and the flow of 
soul," amongst his intimate friends and associates, who were but 
few in number. Amongst these, the principal were David Carrick 
and Andrew Henderson. Opposite as in most respects were the 
characters and pursuits of these three individuals, a certain com- 

* * A portion of this, under the title of" the Doomed Nine, or the Lang- 
bein Riters," appeared in the Paisley Magazine, pp. 60 and 346.' 



Xll PREFACE. 

munity of taste and feeling formed a bond of union amongst them : 
and it was rather amusing to observe, how their comparatively 
neutralizing qualities dovetailed so naturally and finely into each 
other, as to form a harmonious concord. The constitutional 
reserve and silent habits of Motherwell — the quiet drollery and 
sly humor of Carrick — with the irritable and somewhat explo- 
sive abruptness of Henderson, formed a melange, so happily con- 
stituted, and so bizarre frequently in its results, that those whQ 
had access to their frequent symposia, will long remember the 
richness of the cordial and original compound. There was a 
depth of character, however, in Motherwell, which placed him 
naturally at the head of this firm fellowship ; and though appa- 
rently the least motive of the party, his opinions on most points, 
with his tastes and wishes, were generally a law to the others.* 

Even with this limited knowledge, a reader of these poems 
cannot help acquiring an unusual interest in the author ; and he 
irresistibly feels that it is no feigned cry, but the genuine groans 
of a deeply wounded spirit, that he hears in ' O, Agony ! keen 
Agony." — that it is the true sentiment that sighs forth in 
' Mournfully ! O Mournfully,' — that it is the waywardness of the 
writer himself that exclaims, ' Sing high, sing low, thou moody 
wind,' — and his own disappointed hopes that try to buoy them- 
selves up by asking ' What is Glory ? What is Fame ? ' — or 
talking so resignedly of ' The darkness of a nameless tomb ; ' 
and this feeling is still increased by the perusal of the poem 
which concludes this volume, and which is now for the first time 
published in this form, — a poem touching in itself, but rendered 
still more so when known to have been found upon his desk just 
after his death. 



TO 



WILLIAM KENNEDY, ESQ. 



My dear Kennedy, 

At the suggestion of some mutual friends, I have been 
induced to collect these stray verses of mine into a volume, 
which I have now the pleasure of dedicating to you, as a memo- 
rial of earlier days, and of my unaltered feelings of friendship 
and esteem for you. 

I have been told that several of the pieces, in order to be intel- 
ligible to the general reader, required the aid of notes. To the 
critical opinion of others, I am always inclined to defer ; but to 
have loaded a volume of such slender dimensions as the present, 
with historical annotation, would, I think, have gone far to mar 
its appearance as a book, as well as to have given it an air of 
pedantry, which I dislike. 

In this I may be wrong ; but according to my apprehension, the 
only pieces in the volume which need the desiderated illustration, 
are the first three. These, I may mention, are intended to be a 
faint shadowing forth of something like the form and spirit of 
Norse poetry ; but all that is historical about them is contained 
in the proper names. The first, ' Sigurd's Battle-Flag,' does not 
follow the story as given in the Northern Sagas, but only adopts 
the incident of the Magic Standard, which carries victory to the 
party by whom it is displayed, but certain death to 'its- bearer. 

' Jarl Egill Skallagrim's Wooing Song ' is entirely a creation, 



XIV DEDICATION. 

and nothing of it is purely historical, save the preserving of the 
name of that warrior and Scald. From the memorials, however, 
he has left us of himself, I think he could not well have wooed 
in a different fashion from that which I have chosen to describe. 
As for * Thorstein Raudi,' or the red, that is a name which occurs 
in Northern history ; but, as may well be supposed, he never said 
so much in all his life about his sword or himself, as I have taken 
the fancy of putting into his mouth. The allusions made to 
Northern mythology, are, or should be, familiar to almost every 
one. 

The Scottish words and Scottish mode of orthography, adopted 
in a few other little pieces, will, I dare say, be quite intelligible 
even to English readers. They have been long familiarized 
with our vernacular dialect, through the WTitings of Burns and 
Scott ; and if they cannot 3^et master its difficulties, all that can 
reasonably be said of them is, that they are very unapt scholars. 

And now, my dear Kennedy, having made these explanations 
for the satisfaction of the courteous and gentle reader, I, in the 
fulness of a friendly heart, inscribe this volume to you, as an 
earnest of the admiration I entertain for your genius, and as a 
tribute of my unabated affection and friendship towards you, 
amidst all the vicissitudes and turmoil of this weary life. I wish 
I could with any degree of modesty, apply to it the title of an old 
poetical miscellany, and characterize it as 'A posie of gelly 
flowers, eche differing from other in color and odor yet all swete.' 
This may not be. As it is, however, you have it ; and with it, 
the sincere regard of 

Your old and affectionate friend, 

W. Motherwell. 

Glasgow, Oct. 13, 1832. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

The Battle Flag of Sigurd, 19 

The Wooing Song of Jarl Egill Skallagrim, ... 30 

The Sword Chant of Thorstein Raudi, .... 33 

Jeanie Morrison, . 43 

My Heid is like to rend, Willie, 48 

The Madman's Love,- 52 

Halbert the Grim, 70 

True Love's Dirge, 75 

The Demon Lady, 80 

Zara, 84 

Ouglou's Onslaught, 87 

Elfinland Wud, 92 

Midnight and Moonshine, 98 

The Water ! the Water ! 104 

Three Fanciful Supposes, 108 

Caveat to the Wind, 110 

What is Glory? What is Fame ? . . . . 113 

The Solemn Song of a Righteous Hearte, . . . 115 

Melancholye, . 119 

I am not sad, 123 

The Joys of the Wilderness, 127 

A Solemn Couceit, 129 

The Expatriated, 132 

Facts from Fairyland, 135 

Certain Pleasant Verses, 138 

Beneath a Placid Brow, 141 

The Covenanters' Battle Chant, 143 

Tim the Tacket, 146 



XVI CONTENTS. 

The Witches' Joys, 151 

A Sabbath Summer Noon, 156 

A Monody, 162 

They Come ! the Merry Summer Months, . . . 167 

Change svveepeth over all, 170 



SONGS. 

O, Wae be to the Orders, 175 

Wearie's Well, 177 

Song of the Danish Sea-king, 180 

The Cavalier's Song, 183 

The Merry Gallant, 185 

The Knight's Song, 187 

The Trooper's Ditty, 189 

He is gone ! He is gone ! 1 92 

The Forester's Carol, 195 

May Morn Song, 196 

The Bloom hath fled thy cheek, Mary, . . . . 198 

In the quiet and solemn Night, 201 

The Voice of Love, ....... 203 

Away! away! O, do not say, . . . . . . 205 

O, Agony ! keen Agony ! 207 

The Serenade, 208 

Could Love impart, 211 

The Parting, 213 

Love's Diet, 215 

The Midnight Wind, 217 

Lines to a Friend, 219 



POEMS 



i: 



% 



POEMS. 



THE BATTLE-FLAG OF SIGURD, 



I. 

The eagle hearts of all the North 

Have left their stormy strand ; 

The warriors of the world are forth 

To choose another land ! 

Again, their long keels sheer the wave, 

Their broad sheets court the breeze ; 

Again, the reckless and the brave, 

Ride lords of weltering seas. 

Nor swifter from the well-bent bow 

Can feathered shaft be sped. 

Than o'er the ocean's flood of snow 

Their snorting galleys tread. 

Then lift the can to bearded lip. 

And smite each sounding shield, 



20 THE BATTLE-FLAG 

Wassaile ! to every dark-ribbed ship, 

To every battle-field ! 
So proudly the Skalds raise their voices of triumphj 
As the Northmen ride over the broad-bosom' d billow. 

n. 

Aloft J Sigurdir's battle-flag 

Streams onward to the land. 

Well may the taint of slaughter lag 

On yonder glorious strand. 

The waters of the mighty deep, 

The wild birds of the sky, 

Hear it like vengeance shoreward sweep. 

Where moody men must die. 

The waves wax wroth beneath our keel, — 

The clouds above us lower, 

They know the battle-sign, and feel 

All its resistless power ! 

Who now uprears Sigurdir's flag. 

Nor shuns an early tomb ? 

Who shoreward through the swelling surge, 

Shall bear the scroll of doom ? 
So shout the Skalds, as the long ships are nearing 
The low-lying shores of a beautiful land. 



OF SIGURD. 21 

III. 

Silent the Self-devoted stood 

Beside the massive tree ; 

His image mirror' d in the flood 

Was terrible to see ! 

As leaning on his gleaming axe, 

And gazing on the wave. 

His fearless soul was churning up 

The death-rune of the brave. 

Upheaving then his giant form 

Upon the brown bark's prow. 

And tossing back the yellow storm 

Of hair from his broad brow ; 

The lips of song burst open, and 

The words of fire rushed out, 

And thundering through that martial crew 

Pealed Harald's battle shout ; — 
It is Harald the Dauntless that lifteth his great voice, 
As the Northmen roll on with the doom -written 
banner. 

rv. 
' I bear Sigurdir's battle-flag 

Through sunshine, or through gloom ; 

Through swelling surge on bloody strand 

I plant the scroll of doom ! 



22 THE BATTLE-FLAG 

On Scandia's lonest, bleakest waste. 
Beneath a starless sky. 
The Shadowy Three like meteors passed, 
And bade young Harald die ; — 
They sang the war-deeds of his sires, 
And pointed to their tomb ; 
They told him that this glory -flag 
Was his by right of doom. 
Since then, where hath young Harald been. 
But where Jarl's son should be 1 
'Mid war and waves, — the combat keen 
That raged on land or sea ! ' 
So sings the fierce Harald, the thirster for glory, 
As his hand bears aloft the dark death-laden banner. 



' Mine own death 's in this clenched hand ; 
I know the noble trust ; 
These limbs must rot on yonder strand, — 
These lips must lick its dust. 
But shall this dusky standard quail 
In the red slaughter-day ; 
Or shall this heart its purpose fail, — 
This arm forget to slay ? 



OF SIGURD. 23 

I trample down such idle doubt ; 

Harald's high blood hath sprung 

From sires whose hands in martial bout 

Have ne'er belied their tongue ; 

Nor keener from their castled rock 

Rush eagles on their prey, 

Than, panting for the battle-shock. 

Young Harald leads the way.' 
It is thus that tall Harald, in terrible beauty, 
Pours forth his big soul to the joyaunce of heroes. 

VI. 

^ The ship-borne warriors of the North, 
The sons of Woden's race, 
To battle as to feast go forth. 
With stern, and changeless face ; 
And I the last of a great line, — 
The Self-devoted, long 
To lift on high the Runic sign 
Which gives my name to song. 
In battle-field young Harald falls 
Amid a slaughtered foe. 
But backward never bears this flag. 
While streams to ocean flow ; — 



24 . THE BATTLE-FLAG 

On, on above the crowded dead 

This Runic scroll shall flare, 

And round it shall the lightnings spread, 

From swords that never spare.' 
So rush the hero- words from the Death-doomed one, 
While Skalds harp aloud the renown of his fathers. 

vn. 

^ Flag ! from your folds, and fiercely wake 
War-music on the wind, 
Lest tenderest thoughts should rise to shake 
The sternness of my mind ; 
Brynhilda, maiden meek and fair, 
Pale watcher by the sea, 
I hear thy wailings on the air, 
Thy heart's dirge sung for me : — 
In vain thy milk-white hands are wrung 
Above the salt sea foam ; 
The wave that bears me from thy bower, 
Shall never bear me home ; 
Brynhilda ! seek another love, 
But ne'er wed one like me. 
Who death foredoomed from above 
Joys in his destiny.' 



OF SIGURD. 25 

Thus mourned young Harald as he thought on 

Brynhilda, 
While his eyes filled with tears which glittered, 

but fell not. 

VIII. 

^ On sweeps Sigurdir's battle-flag, 

The scourge of far from shore ; 

It dashes through the seething foam, 

But I return no more ! 

Wedded unto a fatal bride, — 

Boune for a bloody bed, — 

And battling for her, side by side. 

Young Harald' s doom is sped ! 

In starkest fight, where kemp on kemp 

Reel headlong to the grave. 

There Harald' s axe shall ponderous ring. 

There Sigurd's flag shall wave; — 

Yes, underneath this standard tall. 

Beside this fateful scroll, 

Down shall the tower-like prison fall 

Of Harald' s haughty soul.' 
So sings the Death-seeker, while nearer and nearer 
The fleet of the Northmen bears down to the shore. 



26 THE BATTLE FLAG 

IX. 

' Green lie those thickly timbered shores 

Fair sloping to the sea ; 

They 're cumbered with the harvest stores 

That wave but for the free : 

Our sickle is the gleaming sword, 

Our garner the broad shield, — 

Let peasants sow, but still he 's lord 

Who 's master of the field ; 

Let them come on, the bastard-born. 

Each soil-stain' d churle ! — alack ! 

What gain they but a splitten skull, 

A sod for their base back ? 

They sow for us these goodly lands. 

We reap them in our might. 

Scorning all title but the brands 

That triumph in the fight ! 
It was thus the land-winners of old gained their glory, 
And gray stones voiced their praise in the bays of far 
isles. 

X. 

' The rivers of yon island low. 
Glance redly in the sun, 



OF SIGURD. 27 

But ruddier still they 're doomed to glow, 

And deeper shall they run ; 

The torrent of proud life shall swell 

Each river to the brim, 

And in that spate of blood, how well 

The headless corpse will swim ! 

The smoke of many a shepherd's cot 

Curls from each peopled glen : 

And, hark ! the song of maidens mild, 

The shout of joyous men ! 

But one may hew the oaken tree, 

The other shape the shroud ; 

As the Landeyda o'er the sea 

Sweeps like a tempest cloud : ' — 
So shouteth fierce Harald, — so echo the Northmen, 
As shoreward their ships like mad steeds are ca- 
reering. 

XI. 

' Sigurdir's battle-flag is spread 
Abroad to the blue sky. 
And spectral visions of the dead 
Are trooping grimly by ; 
The spirit heralds rush before 
Harald' s destroying brand, 



28 THE BATTLE-FLAG 

They hover o'er yon fated shore 

And death-devoted band. 

Marshal stout Jarls your battle fast ! 

And fire each beacon height, 

Our galleys anchor in the sound, 

Our banners heave in sight ! 

And through the surge and arrowy shower 

That rains on this broad shield, 

Harald uplifts the sign of power 

Which rules the battle-field ! ' 
So cries the Death-doomed on the red strand of 

slaughter, 
While the helmets of heroes like anvils are ringing. 

XIL 

On rolled the Northmen's war, above 
The Raven Standard flew. 
Nor tide nor tempest ever strove 
With vengeance half so true. 
T' is Harald, — 'tis the Sire bereaved, — 
Who goads the dread career. 
And high amid the flashing storm 
The flag of Doom doth rear. 
' On, on,' the tall Death-seeker cries. 



OF SIGURD. 29 

^ These earth worms soil our heel, 

Their spear-points crash like crisping ice 

On ribs of stubborn steel ! ' 

Hurra ! hurra ! their whirlwinds sweep, 

And Harald's fate is sped ; 

Bear on the flag — he goes to sleep 

With the life-scorning dead. 
Thus fell the young Harald, as of old fell his sires, 
And the bright hall of heroes bade hail to his spirit. 



30 



THE WOOING SONG OF JARL EGILL 
SKALLAGRIM. 



Bright maiden of Orkney, 
Star of the blue sea ! 
I've swept o'er the waters 
To gaze upon thee ; 
I' ve left spoil and slaughter, 
I 've left a far strand, 
To sing how I love thee, 
To kiss thy small hand ! 
Fair daughter of Einar, 
Golden-haired maid ! 
The lord of yon brown bark. 
And lord of this blade ; 
The joy of the ocean, — 
Of warfare and wind, 
Hath boune him to woo thee. 
And thou must be kind. 
So stoutly Jarl Egill wooed Torf Einar' s daughter. 



JARL EGILL SKALLAGRIM. 31 

In Jutland, — in Iceland, — 
On Neustria's shore, 
Where'er the dark billow 
My gallant bark bore, 
Songs spoke of thy beauty. 
Harps sounded thy praise. 
And my heart loved thee long ere 
It thrilled in thy gaze : 
Ay, Daughter of Einar, 
Right tall mayst thou stand, 
It is a Yikingir 
Who kisses thy hand : 
It is a Vikingir 
That bends his proud knee. 
And swears by Great Freya, 
His bride thou must be ! 
So Jarl Egill swore when his great heart was fullest. 

Thy white arms are locked in 
Broad bracelets of gold ; 
Thy girdle-stead's gleaming 
With treasures untold : 
The circlet that binds up 
Thy long yellow hair. 



32 THE WOOING SONG OF 

Is Starred thick with jewels. 
That bright are and rare ; 
But gifts yet more princely 
Jarl Egill bestows, 
For girdle, his great arm 
Around thee he throws ; 
The bark of a sea-king 
For palace, gives he, 
While mad waves and winds shall 
Thy true subjects be. 
So richly Jarl Egill endowed his bright bride. 

Nay, frown not, nor shrink thus, 
Nor toss so thy head, 
'Tis a Vikingir asks thee. 
Land-maiden to wed ! 
He skills not to woo thee. 
In trembling and fear. 
Though lords of the land may 
Thus troop with the deer. 
The cradle he rocked in 
So sound and so long, 
Hath framed him a heart 
And a hand that are strong : 



JARL EGILL SKALLAGRIM. 33 

He comes then as Jarl should, 
Sword behed to side, 
To win thee and wear thee 
With glory and pride. 
So sternly Jarl Egill wooed, and smote his long brand. 

Thy father, thy brethren, 
Thy kin keep from me. 
The maiden I 've sworn shall 
Be dueen of the sea ! 
A truce with that folly — 
Yon sea-strand can show 
If this eye missed its aim. 
Or this arm failed its blow : 
I had not well taken 
Three strides on this land. 
Ere a Jarl and his six sons 
In death bit the sand. 
Nay, weep not, pale maid, though 
In battle should fall 
The kemps who would keep thy 
Bridegroom from the hall. 
So carped Jarl Egill, and kissed the bright weeper. 



34 THE WOOING SONG OF 

Through shadows and horrors, 
In worlds underground, 
Through sounds that appall 
And through sights that confound, 
I sought the Weird women 
Within their dark cell. 
And made them surrender 
Futurity's spell ; 
I made them rune over 
The dim scroll so free, 
And mutter how fate sped 
With lovers like me ; 
Yes, maiden, I forced them 
To read forth my doom, 
To say how I should fare 
As jolly bridegroom. 
So Jarl EgilFs love dared the world of grim shadows. 

They waxed and they waned. 
They passed to and fro, 
While lurid fires gleamed o'er 
Their faces of snow ; 
Their stony eyes moveless. 
Did glare on me long, 



JARL EGILL SKALLAGRIM. 35 

Then sullen they chanted : 
^ The Sword and the Song 
Prevail with the gentle, 
Sore chasten the rude. 
And sway to their purpose 
Each evil-shaped mood ! ' 
Pair Daughter of Einar, 
I 've sung the dark lay 
That the Weird sisters runed, and 
Which thou must obey. 
So fondly Jarl Egill loved Einar' s proud daughter. 

The curl of that proud lip, 
The flash of that eye, 
The swell of that bosom. 
So full and so high. 
Like foam of sea-billow. 
Thy white bosom shows. 
Like flash of red levin 
Thine eagle eye glows : 
Ha ! firmly and boldly, 
So stately and free, 
Thy foot treads this chamber, 
As bark rides the sea : 



36 THE WOOING SONG OF 

This likes me — this Hkes me, 
Stout maiden of mould, 
Thou wooest to purpose ; 
Bold hearts love the bold. 
So shouted Jarl Egill, and clutched the proud maiden. 

Away and away then, 
I have thy small hand ; 
Joy with me, — our tall bark 
Now bears toward the strand ; 
I call it the Raven, 
The wing of black night. 
That shadows forth ruin 
O'er islands of light : 
Once more on its long deck, 
Behind us the gale, 
Thou shalt see how before it 
Great kingdoms do quail : 
Thou shalt see then how truly. 
My noble-souled maid, 
The ransom of kings can 
Be won by this blade. 
So bravely Jarl Egill did soothe the pale trembler. 



JARL EGILL SKALLAGRIM. 37 

Ay, gaze on its large hilt, 
One wedge of red gold ; 
But doat on its blade, gilt 
With blood of the bold. 
The hilt is right seemly, 
But nobler the blade. 
That swart Velint's hammer 
With cunning spells made ; 
I call it the Adder, 
Death lurks in its bite. 
Through bone and proof-harness 
It scatters pale light. 
Fair Daughter of Einar, 
Deem high of the fate 
That makes thee, like this blade. 
Proud EgilFs loved mate ! 
So Jarl Egill bore off Torf Einar' s bright daughter. 



38 



THE SWORD CHANT OF THORSTEIN RAUDI. 



'Tis not the gray hawk's flight 

O'er mountain and mere ; 
'Tis not the fleet hound's course 

Tracking the deer ; 
'Tis not the hght hoof print 

Of black steed or gray, 
Though sweltering it gallop 

A long summer's day ; 
Which mete forth the Lordships 

I challenge as mine ; 
Ha ! ha ! 'tis the good brand 
I clutch in my strong hand, 
That can their broad marches 

And numbers define. 
Land Giver ! I kiss thee. 

Dull builders of houses, 
Base tillers of earth, 



THE SWORD CHANT OF THORSTEIN RAUDI. 39 

Gaping, ask me what lordships 

I owned at my birth ; 
But the pale fools wax mute 

When I point with my sword 
Eastj west, north, and south, 

Shouting, ' There am I Lord ! ' 
Wold and waste, town and tower. 

Hill, valley, and stream. 
Trembling, bow to my sway 
In the fierce battle fray, 
When the star that rules Fate, is 

This falchion's red gleam. 
Might Giver ! I kiss thee. 

I 've heard great harps sounding, 

In brave bower and hall, 
I 've drank the sweet music 

That bright lips let fall, 
I 've hunted in greenwood. 

And heard small birds sing ; 
But away with this idle 

And cold jargoning ; 
The music I love, is 

The shout of the brave. 



40 



THE SWORD CHANT 

The yell of the dying, 

The scream of the flying, 

When this arm wields death's sickle, 

And garners the grave. 
Joy Giver ! I kiss thee. 

Far isles of the ocean 

Thy lightning have known, 
And wide o'er the main land 

Thy horrors have shone. 
Great sword of my father, 

Stern joy of his hand. 
Thou hast carved his name deep on 

The stranger's red strand, 
And won him the glory 

Of undying song. 
Keen cleaver of gay crests. 
Sharp piercer of broad breasts, 
Grim slayer of heroes. 

And scourge of the strong. 
Fame Giver ! I kiss thee. 

In a love more abiding 

Than that the heart knows, 



OF THORSTEIN RAUDI. 41 

For maiden more lovely 

Than summer's first rose, 
My heart's knit to thine. 

And lives but for thee ; 
In dreamings of gladness, 

Thou 'rt dancing with me. 
Brave measures of madness 

In some battle-field. 
Where armor is ringing. 
And noble blood springing. 
And cloven, yawn helmet. 

Stout hauberk and shield. 
Death Giver ! I kiss thee. 

The smile of a maiden's eye 

Soon may depart ; 
And light is the faith of 

Fair woman's heart ; 
Changeful as light clouds, 

And wayward as wind, 
Be the passions that govern 

Weak woman's mind. 
But thy metal 's as true 

As its polish is bright ; 



42 THE SWORD CHANT OF THORSTEIN RAUDI. 

When ills wax in number, 
Thy love will not slumber. 
But, starlike, burns fiercer. 

The darker the night. 
Heart Gladdener ! I kiss thee. 

My kindred have perished 

By war or by wave, — 
Now, childless and sireless, 

I long for the grave. 
When the path of our glory 

Is shadowed in death. 
With me thou wilt slumber 

Below the brown heath ; 
Thou wilt rest on my bosom. 

And with it decay, — 
While harps shall be ringing. 

And Scalds shall be singing 
The deeds we have done in 

Our old fearless day. 
Song Giver ! I kiss thee. 



43 



JEANIE MORRISON. 



I 'vE wandered east, I 've wandered west, 

Through mony a weary way ; 
But never, never can forget 

The luve o' hfe's young day ! 
The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en. 

May weel be black gin Yule ; 
But blacker fa' awaits the heart 

Where first fond luve grows cule. 

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

The thochts o' bygane years 
Still fling their shadows ower my path. 

And blind my een, wi' tears : 
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears. 

And sair and sick I pine. 
As memory idly summons up 

The blithe blinks o' langsyne. 

'T was then we luvit ilk ither weel, 
'T was then we twa did part ; 



44 JEANIE MORRISON. 

Sweet time — sad time ! twa bairns at scule, 
Twa bairns, and but ae heart ! 

'T was then we sat on ae laigh bink, 
To leir ilk ither lear ; 

And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed. 
Remembered evermair. 

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet. 

When sitting on that bink. 
Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof. 

What our wee heads could think. 
When baith bent doun ower ae braid page, 

Wi' ae bulk on our knee. 
Thy lips were on thy lesson, but 

My lesson was in thee. 

O, mind ye how we hung our heads. 

How cheeks brent red wi' shame. 
Whene'er the scule-weans laughin' said, 

We cleek'd thegither hame ? 
And mind ye o' the Saturdays, 

(The scule then skail't at noon,) 
When we ran aff to speel the braes — 

The broomy braes o' June ? 



JEANIE MORRISON. 45 

My head rins round and round about, 

My heart flows hke a sea. 
As ane by ane the thochts rush back 

O' scule-time and o' thee. 
O, mornin' hfe ! O, mornin' luve ! 

O hchtsome days and lang, 
When hinnied hopes around our hearts 

Like simmer blossoms sprang ! 

O, mind ye. hive, how aft we left 

The deavin' dinsome toun. 
To wander by the green burnside. 

And hear its waters croon ? 
The simmer leaves hung ower our heads. 

The flowers burst round our feet. 
And in the gloamin o' the wood. 

The throssil whusslit sweet ; 

The throssil whusslit in the wood, 

The burn sang to the trees, 
And we with Nature's heart in tune. 

Concerted harmonies ; 
And on the knowe abune the burn, 

For hours thegither sat 



46 JEANIE MORRISON. 

In the silentness o' joy, till baith 
Wi' very gladness grat. 

Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

Tears trinkled doun your cheek 
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane 

Had ony power to speak ! 
That was a time, a blessed time, 

When hearts were fresh and young. 
When freely gushed all feelings forth, 

Unsyllabled, — unsung ! 

I marvel Jeanie Morrison, 

Gin I hae been to thee 
As closely twined wi' earliest thochts, 

As ye hae been to me ? 
O ! tell me gin their music fills 

Thine ear as it does mine ; 

! say gin e'er your heart grows grit 
Wi' dreamings o' langsyne ? 

1 've wandered east, I 've wandered west, 

I 've borne a weary lot ; 
But in my wanderings, far or near, 
Ye never were forgot. 



/ 

JEANIE MORRISON. 47 

The fount that first burst frae this heart, 

Still travels on its way ; 
And channels deeper as it rins, 

The luve o' life's young day. 

dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
Since we were sindered young, 

1 've never seen your face, nor heard 

The music o' your tongue ; 
But I could hug all wretchedness. 

And happy could I die, 
Did I but ken your heart still dreamed 

O' bygane days and me ! 



48 



MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE. 



My held is like to rend, Willie^ 
My heart is like to break, — 

I 'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie, 
I 'm dyin' for your sake ! 

O lay your cheek to mine, Willie, 
Your hand on my briest-bane, - 

say ye '11 think on me, Williej 
When I am deid and gane ! 

It 's vain to comfort me, Willie, 

Sair grief maun ha'e its will, — 
But let me rest upon your briest, 

To sab and greet my fill. 
Let me sit on your knee, Willie, 

Let me shed by your hair, 
And look into the face, Willie, 

I never sail see mair ! 

1 'm sittin' on your knee, Willie, 

For the last time in my life, — 



TO REND, WILLIE. 49 

A puir heart-broken thing, WiUie, 

A mither, yet nae wife. 
Ay, press your hand upon my heart, 

And press it mair and mair, — 
Or it will burst the silken twine, 

Sae Strang is its despair ! 

O wae 's me for the hour, Willie, 

When we thegither met, — 
O wae 's me for the time, Willie, 

That our first tryst was set ! 
O wae's me for the loanin' green 

Where we were wont to gae, — 
And wae 's me for the destinie, 

That gart me luve thee sae ! 

O ! dinna mind my words, Willie, 

I downa seek to blame, — 
But O ! it's hard to live, Willief 

And dree a warld's shame ! 
Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek. 

And hailin' ower your chin ; 
Why weep ye sae for worthlessness, 

For sorrow and for sin ? 

4 



50 MY HEID IS LIKE 

I 'm weary o' this warld, Willie, 

And sick wi' a' I see, — 
I canna live as I ha'e lived. 

Or be as I should be. 
But fauld unto your heart, Willie, 

The heart that still is thine, — 
And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek, 
. Ye said was red langsyne. 

A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie, 

A sair stoun' through my heart, — 
O ! hand me up and let me kiss 

Thy brow ere we twa pairt. 
Anither, and anither yet ! — 

How fast my life-strings break ! — 
Fareweel ! fareweel ! through yon kirk-yard 

Step lichtly for my sake ! 

The laverock in the lift, Willie, 

That lilts far ower our heid. 
Will sing the morn as merrilie 

Abune the clay-cauld deid ; 
And this green turf we 're sittin' on, 

Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen, 



TO REND J WILLIE. 51 

Will hap the heart that luvit thee 
As warld has seldom seen. 

But O ! remember me, Willie, 

On land where'er ye be, — 
And O ! think on the leal, leal heart. 

That ne'er luvit ane but thee ! 
And O ! think on the cauld, cauld mools, 

That file my yellow hair, — 
That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin, 

Ye never sail kiss mair ! 



52 



THE MADMAN'S LOVE. 



Ho ! Flesh and Blood ! sweet Flesh and Blood 

As ever strode on earth ! 
Welcome to Water and to Wood, — 

To all a Madman's mirth. 
This tree is mine, this leafless tree 

That's writhen o'er the linn; 
The stream is mine, that fitfully 

Pours forth its sullen din. 
Their lord am I ; and still my dream 
Is of this Tree, — is of that Stream. 

The Tree, the Stream, — a deadly Twain ! 

They will not live apart ; 
The one rolls thundering through my brain, 

The other smites my heart : 
Ay, this same leafless, fire-scathed tree, 

That groweth by the rock, 
Shakes its old sapless arms at me, 

And would my madness mock ! 
The slaves are saucy, — well they know 
Good service did they long ago. 



THE madman's love. 53 

I We lived two lives : The first is past 

Some hundred years or more : 
But still the present is o'ercast 

With visionings of yore. 
This tree, this rock, that's cushioned sweet 

With tufts of savory thyme, 
That unseen river, which doth greet 

Our ears with its rude rhyme, 
Were then as now, — they form the chain 
That linlis the present with past pain. 

Sweet Flesh and Blood ! how deadly chill 

These milk-white fingers be ! 
The feathery ribs of ice-bound rill 

Seem not so cold to me ; — 
But press them on this burning brow 

Which glows like molten brass, 
'T will thaw them soon ; then thou shalt know 

How ancient visions pass 
Before mine eyes, like shapes of life, 
Kindling old loves and deadly strife. 



Drink to me first ! — nay, do not scorn 
These sparkling dews of night ; 



54 THE madman's love. 

I pledge thee in the silver horn 

Of yonder moonlet bright ; 
'Tis stinted measure now, but soon 

Thy cup shall overflow ; 
It half was spilled two hours agone. 

That little flowers might grow, 
And weave for me fine robes of silk ; 
For which good deed, stars drop them milk. 

Nay, take the horn into thy hand. 

The goodly silver horn, 
And quaff it off. At my command 

Each flower-cup, ere the morn. 
Shall brimful be of glittering dews. 

And then we '11 have large store 
Of heaven's own vintage ripe for use. 

To pledge our healths thrice o'er ; 
So skink the can as maiden free. 
Then troll the merry bowl to me ! 

Hush ! — drink no more ! for now the trees, 

In yonder grand old wood. 
Burst sorth in sinless melodies 

To cheer my solitude ; 

# 



THE madman's love. 55 

Trees sing thus every night to me, 

So mournfully and slow, — 
They think, dear hearts, 't were well for me, 

Could large tears once forth flow 
From this hard frozen eye of mine, 
As freely as they stream from thine. 

Ay, ay, they sing right passing well, 

And pleasantly in tune. 
To midnight winds a canticle 

That floats up to the moon ; 
And she goes wandering near and far 

Through yonder vaulted skies. 
No nook whereof but hath a star 

Shed for me from her eyes ; — 
She knows I cannot weep, but she 
Weeps worlds of light for love of me ! 



Yes, in her bower of clouds she weeps 

Night after night for me, — 
The lonely man that sadly keeps 

Watch by the blasted tree. 
She spreads o'er these lean ribs her beams, 

To scare the cutting cold ; 



56 THE madman's love. 

She lends me light to read my dreams, 

And rightly to unfold 
The mysteries that make men mad, 
Or wise, or wild, or good, or bad. 

So lovingly she shines through me. 

Without me and within. 
That even thou, methinks, might' st see, 

Beneath this flesh so thin, 
A heart that like a ball of fire 

Is ever blazing there. 
Yet dieth not ; for still the lyre 

Of heaven soothes its despair, — 
The lyre that sounds so sadly sweet, 
When winds and woods and waters meet. 

Hush ! hush ! so sang yon ghastly wood, 

So moaned the sullen stream 
One night, as two on this rock stood 

Beneath this same moonbeam : — 
Nay, start not ! — one was Flesh and Blood, 

A dainty, straight-limbed dame, 
That clung to me and sobbed, — O God 

Struggling with maiden shame. 



THE madman's love. 57 



She faltered forth her love, and swore, 
' On land or sea, thine evermore ! ' 



By Wood, by Water, and by Wind, 

Yea, by the blessed light 
Of the brave moon, that maiden kind 

Eternal faith did plight ; 
Yea, by the rock on which we stood, — 

This altar-stone of yore, — 
That loved one said, ^ On land or flood, 

Thine, thine for evermore ! ' 
The earth reeled round, I gasped for breath, 
I loved, and was beloved till death ! 

I felt upon my brow a kiss, 

Upon my cheek a tear ; 
I felt that now life's sum of bliss 

Was more than heart could bear. 
Life's sum of bliss ? say rather pain, 

For heart to find its mate. 
To love, and be beloved again. 

Even when the hand of Fate 
Motions farewell ! — and one must be 
A wanderer on the faithless sea. 



58 THE madman's love. 

Ay, Land or Sea ! for, mark me now, 

Next morrow o'er the foam, 
Sword girt to side, and helm on brow, 

I left a sorrowing home ; 
Yet still I lived as very part 

Even of this sainted rock. 
Where first that loved one's tristful heart 

Its secret treasure broke 
In my love-thirsting ear alone. 
Here, here, on this huge altar-stone. 

Hear' St thou the busy sounds that come 

From yonder glittering shore : 
The madness of the doubling drum, 

The naker's sullen roar, — 
The wild and shrilly strains that swell 

From each bright brassy horn, — 
The fluttering of each penoncel 

By knightly lance upborne, — 
The clear ring of each tempered shield, 
And proud steeds neighing far afield 7 

Sweet Flesh and Blood ! my tale 's not told 
'T is scantly well begun : — 



THE madman's love. 59 

Our vows were passed, in heaven enrolled, 

And then next morrow's sun 
Saw banners waving in the wind, 

And tall barks on the sea : 
Glory before, and Love behind, 

Marshalled proud chivalrie, 
As every valor-freighted ship 
Its gilt prow in the wave did dip. 

And then passed o'er a merry time, — 

A roystering gamesome life, 
Till cheeks were tanned with many a clime. 

Brows scarred in many a strife. 
But what of that ? Year after year, 

In every battle's shock. 
Or 'mid the storips of ocean drear, 

My heart clung to this rock ; 
Was with its very being blent. 
Sucking from it brave nourishment. 



All life, all feeling, every thought 
Was centred in this spot ; 

The unforgetting being wrought 
JJpon the Unforgot. 



60 THE madman's love. 

Time fleeted on ; but time ne'er dimmed 
The picturings of the heart, — 

Freshly as when they first were Hmned, 
Truth's fadeless tints would start; 

Yes ! wheresoe'er Life's bark might steer, 

This changeless heart was anchored here. 

Ha ! laugh, sweet Flesh and Blood, outright. 

Nor smother honest glee. 
Your time is now ; but ere this night 

Hath travelled over me, 
My time shall come ; and then, ay, then 

The wanton stars shall reel 
Like drunkards all, when we madmen 

Upraise our laughter peal. 
I see the cause : the Twain, — the One, — 
The Shape that gibbered in the sun ! 

You pinch my wrist, you press my knee, 

With fingers long and small ; 
Light fetters these, — not so on me 

Did heathen shackles fall. 
When I was captived in the fight 

On Candy's fatal shore ; ^ 



THE madman's love. 61 

And paynims won a battered knight, 

A living well of gore ; — 
How the knaves smote me to the ground, 
And hewed me like a tree all round ! 

They hammered irons on my hand, 

And irons on my knee ; 
They bound me fast with many a band, 

To pillar and to tree ; 
They flung me in a loathsome pit, 

Where loathly things were rife, — 
Where newte, and toad, and rat would sit. 

Debating for my life, 
On my breast bone ; while one and all 
Hissed, fought, and voided on their thrall. 

Yet lived I on, and, madman-like. 

With unchanged heart I lay ; 
No venom to its core could strike. 

For it was far away : — 
'T was even here beside this Tree, 

Its Trysting-place of yore. 
Where that fond maiden swore to me, 

' Thine, thine, for evermore.' 



62 THE madman's love. 

Faith in her vow made that pit seem 
The palace of Arabian dream. 

And so was passed a weary time, 

How long I cannot tell, 
'T was years ere in that sunny clime 

A smibeam on me fell. 
But from that tomb I rushed in tears, 

The fetters fell from me. 
They rusted through with damp and years, 

And rotted was the tree, 
When the Undying crawled from night, — 
From loathsomeness, into God's light. 

O Lord ! there was a flood of sound 

Came rushing through my ears. 
When I arose from underground, 

A wild thing shedding tears : — 
The voices of glad birds and brooks. 

And eke of greenwood tree. 
With all the long-remembered looks 

Of earth, and sky, and sea, 
Danced madly through my 'wildered brain, 
And shook me like a wind-swung chain. 



THE MADMAN S LOVE. 



63 



Men marvelled at the ghastly form 

That sat before the sun, — 
That laughed to scorn the pelting storm, 

Nor would the thunders shun ; 
The bearded Shape that gibbered sounds 

Of uncouth lore and lands, 
Struck awe into these Heathen hounds, 

Who, lifting up their hands. 
Blessed the wild prophet, and then brought 
Raiment and food unthanked, unsought. 

I have a dreaming of the sea, — 

A dreaming of the land, — 
A dreaming that again to me 

Belonged a good knight's brand, — 
A dreaming that this brow was pressed 

With plumed helm once more, 
That linked mail reclad this breast 

When I retrod the shore. 
The blessed shores of my fatherland, 
And knelt in prayer upon its strand. 



' Years furrow brows and channel cheeks, 
But should not chase old loves away ; 



64 THE madman's love. 

The language which true heart first speaks, 
That language must it hold for aye.' 

This poesie a war-worn man 
Did mutter to himself one night. 

As upwards to this clijff he ran ; 
That shone in the moonlight ; 

And by the moonlight curiously, 

He scanned the bark of this old tree. 

^ No change is here, all things remain 

As they were years ago ; 
With self-same voice the old woods playne. 

When shrilly winds do blow, — 
Still murmuring to itself, the stream 

Rolls o'er its rocky bed, — 
Still smiling in its quiet dream, 

The small flower nods its head ; 
And I stand here,' the War-worn said, 
• Like Nature's heart unaltered.' 

Now, Flesh and Blood, that sits by me 

On this bare ledge of stone. 
So sat that Childe of chivalrie, 

One summer eve alone. 



THE MADMAN'S LOVE. 

I saw him, and methought he seemed 

Like to the bearded Form 
That sat before the sun, and gleamed 

Defiance to the storm ; 
I saw him in his war- weed sit, 
And other Two before him flit. 

Yes, in the shadow of that tree, 

And motionless as stone. 
Sat the War-worn, while mirthfully 

The other Two passed on ; — 
By heaven ! one was a comely bride. 

Her face gleamed in the moon, 
As richly as in full-fleshed pride 

Bright roses burst in June ; 
Methought she was the maiden mild, 
That whilome loved the wandering Childe ! 



65 



But it was not her former love 
That wandered with her there, — 

O, no ! long absence well may move 
A maiden to despair ; 

Old loves we cast unto the winds, 
Old vov«s into the sea, 



66 THE madman's love. 

'T is lightsome for all gentle minds 

To be as fancy free. 
So the Vow-pledged One loved another, 
And wantoned with a younger brother. 

I heard a dull, hoarse, chuckle sound, 

Beside that trysting-tree ; 
I saw uprising from the ground, 

A ghastly shape like me. 
But no ! — it was the War-worn wight. 

That pale as whited wall. 
Strode forth into the moonshine bright. 

And let the hoarse sounds fall. 
A voice uprushing from the tomb 
Than his, were less fulfilled with doom. 

^ Judgment ne'er sleeps ! ' the War-worn said. 

As striding into light. 
He stood before that shuddering maid. 

Between her and that knight. 
Judgment ne'er sleeps ! 'tis wondrous odd. 

One gurgle, one long sigh. 
Ended it all ! Upon this sod 

Lay one with unclosed eye, 



THE madman's love. 67 

And then the boihng hnn that night, 
Flung on its banks a lady bright. 

She tripped towards me as you have tripped, 

Pale maiden ! and as cold ; 
She sipped with me as you have sipped. 

Night dews, and then I told 
To her as you, my weary tale 

Of double life and pain ; 
And thawed her fingers chill and pale 

Upon my burning brain ; — 
That daintiest piece of Flesh on earth, 
I welcomed to all my mirth. 

And then I pressed her icy hand 

Within my burning palm. 
And told her tales of that far land, 

Of sunshine, flowers, and balm ; 
I told her of the damp, dark hole, 

The fetters and the tree. 
And of the slimy things that stole 

O'er shuddering flesh so free : 
Yea, of the Bearded Ghastliness, 
That sat in the sun's loveliness. 



68 THE madman's love. 

I welcomed her, I welcome thee. 

To sit upon this stone, 
And meditate all night with me, 

On ages that are gone ; 
To dream again each marvellous dream, 

Of passion and of truth, 
And reconstruct each shattered beam ■ 

That glorified glad youth. 
These were the days ! — hearts then could feel, 
Eyes weep, and slumbers o'er them steal. 

But not so now. The second life 

That wearied hearts must live, 
Is woven with that thread of strife, — 

Forget not, nor Forgive ! 
Fires, scorching fires, run through our veins. 

Our corded sinews crack. 
And molten lead boils in our brains, 

For marrow to the back. 
Ha ! ha! What's Life? Think of the joke. 
The fiercest fire still ends in smoke. 

Fill up the cup ! fill up the can ! 

Drink, drink, sweet Flesh and Blood, 



THE madman's love. 69 

The health of the grim bearded man 

That haunteth sohtude ; — 
The wood pours forth its melodies. 

And stars whirl fast around ; 
Yon moon-ship scuds before the breeze, — 

Hark, how sky-billows sound ! 
Drink, Flesh and Blood ! then trip with me, 
One measure round the Madman's Tree ! 






70 



HALBERT THE GRIM. 



There is blood on that brow, 
There is blood on that hand ; 

There is blood on that hauberk, 
And blood on that brand. 

O ! bloody all o'er is 
His war-cloak^ I weet ; 

He is wrapped in the cover 
Of murder's red sheet. 

There is pity in man, — 

Is there any in him ? 
No ! ruth were a strange guest 

To Halbert the Grim. 

The hardest may soften, 

The fiercest repent ; 
But the heart of Grim Halbert 

May never relent. 



HALBERT THE GRIM. 71 

Death doing on earth, is 

For ever his cry ; 
And pillage and plunder 

His hope in the sky ! 

' T is midnightj deep midnight, 

And dark is the heaven ; 
Sir Halbert, in mockery, 

Wends to be shriven. 

He kneels not to stone. 

And he bends not to wood ; 
But he swung round his brown blade, 

And hewed down the Rood ! 

He stuck his long sword, with 

Its point in the earth ; 
And he prayed to its cross hilt. 

In mockery and mirth. 

Thus lowly he louteth, 

And mumbles his beads ; 
Then lightly he riseth. 

And homeward he speeds. 



72 HALBERT THE GRIM. 

His Steed hurries homewards, 
Darkhng and dim ; 

Right fearful its prances 
With Halbert the Grim. 

Still fiercer it tramples. 
The spur gores its side ; 

Now downward and downward 
Grim Halbert doth ride. 

The brown wood is threaded. 
The gray flood is past. 

Yet hoarser and wilder 
Moans ever the blast. 

No star lends its taper, 
No moon sheds her glow ; 

For dark is the dull path 
That Baron must go. 

Though starless the sky, and 
No moon shines abroad, 

Yet, flashing with fire, all 
At once gleams the road. 



HALBERT THE GRIM. 

And his black steed, I trow, 

As it galloped on. 
With a hot sulphur halo, 

And flame-flash all shone. 

From eye and from nostril, 
Out gushed the pale flame, 

And from its chafed mouth, the 
Churned fire-froth came. 

They are two ! they are two ! •— 
They are coal black as night. 

That now staunchly follow 
That grim Baron's flight. 

In each lull of the wild blast, 
Out breaks their deep yell ; 

'T is the slot of the doomed one. 
These hounds track so well. 



73 



Ho ! downward, still downward, 
Sheer slopeth his way : 

No let hath his progress, 
No gate bids him stay. 



74 HALBERT THE GRIM. 

No noise had his horse-hoof 

As onward it sped ; 
But silent it fell, as 

The foot of the dead. 

Now redder and redder 
Flares far its bright eye, 

And harsher these dark hounds 
Yell out their fierce cry. 

Sheer downward ! right downward 
Then dashed life and limb, 

As careering to hell, 

Sunk Halbert the Grim ! 



75 



TRUE LOVE'S DIRGE. 



Some love is light and fleets away, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

Some love is deep and scorns decay, 
Ah, well-a-day ! in vain. 

Of loyal love I sing this lay, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

'T is of a knight and lady gay. 
Ah, well-a-day ! bright twain. 

He loved her, — heart loved ne'er so well, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

She was a cold and proud damsel, 
Ah, well-a-day ! and vain. 

He loved her, — oh, he loved her long, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

But she for love gave bitter wrong. 
Ah ! well-a-day ! Disdain ! 



76 TRUE love's dirge. 

It is not meet for knight like me, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

Though scorned, love's recreant to be, 
Ahj well-a-day ! Refrain. 

That brave knight buckled to his brand, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

And fast he sought a foreign strand, 
Ah, well-a-day ! in pain. 

He wandered wide by land and sea, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

A mirror of bright constancye, 
Ah, well-a-day ! in vain. 

He would not chide, he would not blame, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

But at each shrine he breathed her name, 
Ah, well-a-day ! Amen ! 

He would not carpe, he would not sing, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

But broke his heart with love-longing, 
Ah, well-a-day ! poor brain. 



TRUE LOVE S DIRGE. 



77 



He scorned to weep, he scorned to sigh, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

But hke a true knight he could die, — 
Ah, well-a-day! Ufe's vain. 

The banner which that brave knight bore, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

Had scrolled on it ^^jFaftf) ISljetmotr/^ 
Ah, well-a-day ! again. 

That banner led the Christian van, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

Against Seljuck and Turcomon, 
Ah ! well-a-day ! bright train. 

The fight was o'er, the day was done, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

But lacking was that loyal one, — 
Ah ! well-a-day ! sad pain. 



They found him on the battle-field, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

With broken sword and cloven shield. 
Ah ! well-a-day ! in twain. 



TO TRUE love's dirge. 

They found him pillowed on the dead, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

The blood-soaked sod his bridal bed, 
Ah, well-a-day ! the Slain. 

On his pale brow, and paler cheek, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

The white moonshine did fall so meek, — 
Ah, well-a-^day ! sad strain. 

They lifted up the True and Brave, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

And bore him to his lone cold grave, 
Ah, well-a-day ! in pain. 

They buried him on that far strand, 

Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 
His face turned towards his love's own land. 

Ah, well-a-day ! how vain. 

The wearied heart was laid at rest, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

To dream of her it liked best, 
Ah, well-a-day ! again. 



TRUE love's dirge. 79 

They nothing said, but many a tear, 

Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 
Rained down on that knight's lowly bier, 

Ah, well-a-day ! amain. 

They nothing said, but many a sigh, 

Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 
Told how they wished like him to die, ^ 

Ah ! well-a-day ! sans stain. 

With solemn mass and orison, 

Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 
They reared to him a cross of stone. 

Ah, well-a-day ! in pain. 

And on it graved with daggers bright, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

fl^tvt Um a true antr fientle Itntflfit, 

Ah, well-a-day ! Amen ! 



80 



THE DEMON LADY. 



Again in my chamber ! 

Again at my bed ! 
With thy smile sweet as sunshine, 

And hand cold as lead ! 
I know thee, I know thee ! — 

Nay, start not, my sweet ! 
These golden robes shrank up, 

And showed me thy feet ; 
These golden robes shrank up. 

And tafFety thin. 
While out crept the symbols 

Of Death and of Sin ! 

Bright, beautiful devil ! 

Pass, pass from me now ! 
For the damp dew of death 

Gathers thick on my brow : 
And bind up thy girdle, 

Nor beauties disclose, 



THE DEMON LADY. 

More dazzlingly white 

Than the wreath-drifted snows 
And away with thy kisses ; 

My heart waxes sick. 
As thy red hps, like worms. 

Travel over my cheek ! 

Ha ! press me no more with 

That passionless hand, 
'T is whiter than milk, or 

The foam on the strand ; 
'T is softer than down, or 

The silken-leaved flower ; 
But colder than ice thrills 

Its touch at this hour. 
Like the finger of Death 

From cerements unrolled. 
Thy hand on my heart falls 

Dull, clammy, and cold. 



81 



Nor bend o'er my pillow, — 
Thy raven black hair 

O'ershadows my brow with 
A deeper despair ; 



82 THE DEMON LADY. 

These ringlets thick falhng 
Spread fire through my brain, 

And my temples are throbbing 
With madness again. 

The moonlight ! the moonlight ! 
The deep-winding bay ! 

There are two on that strand, 
i And a ship far away ! 

In its silence and beauty, 

Its passion and power, 
Love breathed o'er the land. 

Like the soul of a flower. 
The billows were chiming 

On pale yellow sands ; 
And moonshine was gleaming 

On small ivory hands. 
There were bowers by the brook's brink. 

And flowers bursting free ; 
There were hot lips to suck forth 

A lost soul from me ! 

Now, mountain and meadow. 
Frith, forest and river, 



THE DEMON LADY. 



83 



Are mingling with shadows, — 

Are lost to me ever. 
The sunlight is fading, 

Small birds seek their nest ; 
While happy hearts, flower-like, 

Sink sinless to rest, 
But I ! — 't is no matter ; — 

Ay, kiss cheek and chin ; 
Kiss, — kiss, — thou hast won me^ 

Bright, beautiful Sin ! 



84 



ZARA, 



' A SILVERY veil of pure moonlight 
Is glancing o'er the quiet water. 
And O ! 'tis beautiful and bright 
As the soft smile of Selim's daughter. 

' Sleepj moonlight ! sleep upon the wave, 
And hush to rest each rising billow. 
Then dwell within the mountain cave, 
Where this fond breast is Zara's pillow. 

^ Shine on, thou blessed moon ! brighter still, 
O, shine thus ever night and morrow ; 
For day-break mantling o'er the hill, 
But wakes my love to fear and sorrow.' 

'T was thus the Spanish youth beguiled 
The rising fears of Selim's daughter ; 
And on their loves the pale moon smiled, 
Unweeting of the morrow's slaughter. 



ZARA. 



85 



Alas ! too early rose that morn, 

On harnessed knight and fierce soldada, — 

Alas ! too soon the Moorish horn 

And tambour rang in Old Grenada. 

The dew yet bathes the dreaming flower, 
The mist yet lingers in the valley. 
When Selim and his Zegris' power 
From port and postern sternly sally. 

Marry ! it was a gallant sight 

To see the plain with armour glancing, 

As on to Alpuxara's height 

Proud Selim' s chivalry were prancing. 

The knights dismount ; on foot they climb 

The rugged steeps of Alpuxara ; 

In fateful and unhappy time. 

Proud Selim found his long-lost Zara. 



They sleep, — in sleep they smile and dream 
Of happy days they ne'er shall number ; 
Their lips breathe sounds, — their spirits seem 
To hold communion while they slumber. 



86 ZARA. 

A moment gazed the stern old Moor, 
A scant tear in his eye did gather, 
For as he gazed, she muttered o'er 
A blessing on her cruel father. 

The hand that grasped the crooked blade, 
Relaxed its gripe, then clutched it stronger ; 
The tear that that dark eye hath shed 
On the swart cheek, is seen no longer. 

'Tis past ! — the bloody deed is done, 
A father's hand hath sealed the slaughter ! 
Yet in Grenada many a one 
Bewails the fate of Selim's daughter. 

And many a Moorish damsel hath 

Made pilgrimage to Alpuxara ; 

And breathed her vows, where Selim's wrath 

O'ertook the Spanish youth and Zara. 



87 



OUGLOU'S ONSLAUGHT. 
A Turkish Battle Song. 



TcHAssAN Ouglou is on ! 
Tchassan Ouglou is on ! 
And with him to battle 
The Faithful are gone. 

Allah, il allah ! 
The tambour is rung ; 
Into his war-saddle 
Each Spahi hath swung : — 
Now the blast of the desert 
Sweeps over the land, 
And the pale fires of heaven 
Gleam in each Damask brand. 

Allah, il allah ! 

Tchassan Ouglou is on ! 
Tchassan Ouglou is on ! 
Abroad on the winds, all 
His Horse-tails are thrown. 



88 OUGLOU'S ONSLAUGHT. 

'Tis the rush of the eagle 
Down cleaving through air, — 
'Tis the bound of the lion 
When roused from his lair. 
Ha ! fiercer and wilder 
And madder by far, — 
On thunders the might 
Of the Moslemite war. 
Allah, il allah ! 

Forth lash their wild horses, 
With loose-flowing rein ; 
The steel grides their flank, 
Their hoof scarce dints the plain. 
Like the mad stars of heaven. 
Now the Delis rush out ; 
O'er the thunder of cannon 
Swells proudly their shout, — 
And sheeted with foam, 
Like the surge of the sea. 
Over wreck, death, and woe, rolls 
Each fierce Osmanli. 
Allah, il allah ! 



^■^^tfHiAitektf 



OUGLOU'S ONSLAUGHT. 89 

Fast forward, still forward, 

Man follows on man, 

While the Horse-tails are dashing 

Afar in the van ; — 

See where yon pale crescent 

And green turban shine, 

There smite for the Prophet, 

And Othman's great line ! 

Allah, il allah ! 
The fierce war-cry is given, — 
For the flesh of the Giaour 
Shriek the vultures of heaven. 

Allah, il allah ! 

Allah, il allah ! 
How thick on the plain. 
The infidels cluster 
Like ripe, heavy grain. 
The reaper is coming, 
The crooked sickle 's bare. 
And the shout of the Faithful 
Is rending the air. 
Bismillah ! Bismillah ! 
Each far-flashing brand 



90 OUGLOU's ONSLAUGHT. 

Hath piled its red harvest 
Of death on the land ! 
Allah, il allah ! 

Markj mark yon green turban 
That heaves through the fight, 
Like a tempest-tost bark 
'Mid the thunders of night ; 
See parting before it, 
On right and on left. 
How the dark billows tumble, — 
Each saucy crest cleft ! 
Ay, horseman and footman 
Reel back in dismay, 
When the sword of stern Ouglou 
Is lifted to slay. 
Allah, il allah ! 



Allah, il allah ! 
Tchassan Ouglou is on ! 
O'er the Infidel breast 
Hath his fiery barb gone 
The bullets rain on him, 
They fall thick as hail ; 



^-^. ....^.. . ^ ^..-... ..^ — .. .^. 



OUGLOU'S ONSLAUGHT. 



91 



The lances crash round him 
Like reeds in the gale, — 
But onwardj still onward. 
For God and his law, 
Through the dark strife of Death 
Bursts the gallant Pacha. 
Allah, il allah ! 



In the wake of his might, — 
In the path of the wind. 
Pour the sons of the Faithful^ 
Careering behind ; 
And bending to battle 
O'er each high saddle-bow, 
With the sword of Azrael, 
They sweep down the foe. 

Allah, il allah ! 
'Tis Ouglou that cries, — 
In the breath of his nostril 
The Infidel dies ! 

Allah, il allah ! 



92 



ELFINLAND WUD. 
An Imitation of the Ancient Scottish Romantic Ballad. 



Erl W1LLIA.M has muntit his gude grai stede, 
(Merrie lemis munehcht on the sea,) 

And graithit him in ane cumh weid. 

(Swa bonnihe blumis the hawthorn tree.) 

Erl WiUiam rade, Erl William ran, — 
(Fast they ryde quha luve trewlie, ) 

duhyll the Elfinland wud that gude Erl wan - 
(Blink ower the burn, sweit may, to mee.) 

Elfinland wud is dern and dreir, 
(Merrie is the grai gowkis sang,) 

Bot ilk ane leafis quhyt as silver cleir, 
(Licht makis schoirt the road swa lang.) 

It is undirneth ane braid aik tree, 

(Hey and a lo, as the lea vis grow grein,) 

Thair is kythit ane bricht ladie, 

(Manie flouris blume quhilk ar nocht seen.) 



^M^UfariM^ 



ELFINLAND WUD. 93 

Around hir slepis the quhyte muneschyne, 

(Meik is mayden undir kell,) 
Hir lips bin lyke the blude reid wyne ; 

(The rois of flouris hes sweitest smell.) 

It was al bricht quhare that ladie stude, 
(Far my luve, fure ower the sea.) 

Bot dern is the lave of Elfinland wud, 

(The knicht pruvit false that ance luvit me.) 

The ladle's handis were quhyte als milk, 
(Ringis my luve wore mair nor ane.) 

Hir skin was safter nor the silk ; 

(Lilly bricht schinis my luvis halse bane.) 

Save you, save you, fayr ladie. 

(Gen til hert schawls gen til deed.) 
Standand alane undir this auld tree ; 

(Deir till knicht is nobil steid.) 

Burdalane, if ye dwall here, 

(My hert is layed upon this land.) 

I wud like to live your fere ; 

(The schippis cum sailin to the strand.) 



94 ELFINLAND WUD. 

Nevir ane word that ladie sayd ; 

(Schortest rede hes least to mend.) 
Bot on hir harp she evir played ; 

(Thare nevir was mirth that had nocht end.) 

Gang ye eist, or fare ye wast, 

(Ilka stern blinkis blythe for thee,) 

Or tak ye the road that ye like best, 
(Ai trew feeris ryde in cumpanie.) 

Erl William loutit doun full lowe ; 

(Luvis first seid bin courtesie.) 
And swung hir owir his saddil bow, 

(Ryde quha listis, ye '11 link with mee.) 

Scho flang her harp on that auld tree, 
(The wynd pruvis aye ane harpir gude.) 

And it gave out its music free ; 

(Birdis sing blythe in gay green wud.) 

The harp playde on its leeful lane, 
(Land is my luvis yellow hair.) 

duhill it has charmit stock and stane, 
(Furth by firth, deir lady fare.) 



ELFINLAND WUD. 95 

Quhan scho was muntit him behynd, 
(Blyth be hertis quhilkis luve ilk uther.) 

Awa thai flew lyke flaucht of wind ; 
(Kin kens kin, and bairnis thair mither.) 

Nevir ane word that ladie spak ; 

(Mim be may dens men besyde.) 
Bot that stout steid did nicher and schaik ; 

(Smal things humbil hertis of pryde.) 

About his breist scho plet her handis ; 

(Luvand be maydins quhan thai lyke.) 
Bot thay were cauld as yron bandis. 

(The winter bauld bindis sheuch and syke.) 

Your handis ar cauld, fayr ladie, sayd hee, 
(The caulder hand the trewer hairt.) 

I trembil als the lief on the tree ; 

(Licht caussis muve aid friendis to pairt.) 

Lap your mantil owir your heid, 

(My luve was clad in the reid scarlett,) 

And spredd your kirtil owir my stede ; 
(Thair nevir was joie that had nae lett.) 



96 ELFINLAND WUD. 

The ladie scho wald nocht dispute ; 

(Nocht woman is scho that laikis ane tung.) 
But caulder hir fingeris about him cruik. 

(Sum sangis ar writt, hot nevir sung.) 

This Elfinland wud will neir haif end ; 

(Hunt quha listis, daylicht formee,) 
I wuld I culd ane Strang bow bend, 

(Al undirneth the grene wud tree.) 

Thai rade up, and they rade doun, 
(Wearilie wearis wan nicht away.) 

Erl William's heart mair cauld is grown ; 
(Hey, luve mine, quhan da wis the day ?) 

Your hand lies cauld on my briest-bane, 

(Smal hand hes my ladie fair,) 
My horss he can nocht stand his lane, 

(For cauldness of this midnicht air.) 

Erl William turnit his heid about : 

(The braid mune schinis in lift richt cleir.) 

Twa Elfin een are glentin owt, 

(My luvis een like twa sternis appere.) 



ELFINLAND WUD. 97 

Twa brennand eyiie, sua bricht and full, 

(Bonnilie blinkis my ladeis ee,) 
Flang fire flauchtis fra ane peelit skull ; 

(Sum sichts ar ugsomlyk to see.) 

Twa rawis of quhyt teeth then did say, 
(Cauld the boysteous windis sal blaw,) 

O, lang and weary is our way, 

(And donkir yet the dew maun fa'.) 

Far owir mure, and far owir fell, 

(Hark the sounding huntsmen thrang;) 

Thorow dingle, and thorow dell, 
(Luve, come, list the merlis sang.) 

Thorow fire, and thorow flude, 

(Mudy mindis rage lyk a sea;) 
Thorow slauchtir, thorow blude, 

(A seamless shrowd weird schaipis for me !) 

And to rede aricht my spell, 

Eerilie sal nicht wyndis moan, 
Quhill fleand Hevin and raikand Hell, 

Ghaist with ghaist maim wandir on. 

7 



98 



MIDNIGHT AND MOONSHINE. 



All earth below, all heaven above. 

In this calm hour, are filled with Love ; 

All sights, all sounds have throbbing hearts, 

In which its blessed fountain starts, 

And gushes forth so fresh and free, 

Like a soul-thrilling melody. 

Look ! look ! the land is sheathed in light, 

And mark the winding stream. 
How, creeping round yon distant height, 

Its rippling waters gleam. 
Its waters flash through leaf and flower, — 

O ! merrily they go ; 
Like living things, their voices pour 

Dim music as they flow. 
Sinless and pure they seek the sea, 
As souls pant for eternity ; — 
Heaven speed their bright course till they sleep 
In the broad bosom of the deep. 

High in mid air, on seraph wing. 
The paley moon is journeying 



MIDNIGHT AND MOONSHINE. 99 

In stillest path of stainless blue ; 
Keen, curious stars are peering through 
Heaven's arch this hour ; they dote on her 
With perfect love ; nor can she stir 
Within her vaulted halls a pace, 
Ere rushing out with joyous face, 

These Godkins of the sky 
Smile, as she glides in loveliness ; | 

While every heart beats high | 

With passion, and breaks forth to bless 

Her loftier divinity. 

It is a smile worth worlds to win, — 
So full of love, so void of sin, 
The smile she sheds on these tall trees. 
Stout children of past centuries. 
Each little leaf with feathery light, 

Is margined marvellously ; 
Moveless all droop, in slumberous quiet ; 

How beautiful they be ! 
And blissful as soft infants lulled 

Upon a mother's knee. 

Far down yon dell the melody 
Of a small brook is audible ; 



100 MIDNIGHT AND MOONSHINE. 

The shadow of a thread-hke tone, — 
It murmurs over root and stone, 

Yet sings of very love its fill ; — 
And hark ! even now, how sweetly shrill 

It trolls its fairy glee, 
Skywards unto that pure bright one ; 

O ! gentle heart hath she. 
For, leaning down to earth, with pleasure, 
She lists its fond and prattling measure. 

It is indeed a silent night 
Of peace, of joy, and purest light ; — 
No angry breeze in surly tone, 
Chides the old forest till it moan ; 
Or breaks the dreaming of the owl, 

That, warder-like, on yon gray tower, 
Feedeth his melancholy soul 

With visions of departed power ; 
And o'er the ruins Time hath sped, 
Nods sadly with his spectral head. 

And lo ! even like a giant wight 
Slumbering his battle toils away. 

The sleep-locked city, gleaming bright 
With many a dazzling ray, 



MIDNIGHT AND MOONSHINE. 101 

Lies stretched in vastness at my feet ; 
Voiceless the chamber and the street, 

And echoless the hall ; — 
Had Death uplift his bony hand 
And smote all living on the land, 

No deeper quiet could fall. 
In this religious calm of night, 
Behold, with finger tall and bright, 
Each tapering spire points to the sky. 
In a fond, holy ecstasy : — 
Strange monuments they be of mind, — 
Of feelings dim and undefined, 
Shaping themselves, yet not the less, 
In forms of passing loveliness. 

God ! this is a holy hour : — 
Thy breath is o'er the land; 

1 feel it in each little flower 

Around me where I stand, — 
In all the moonshine scattered fair. 
Above, below me, everywhere, — 
In every dew-bead glistening sheen, 
In every leaf and blade of green, — 
And in this silence grand and deep. 
Wherein thy blessed creatures sleep. 



102 MIDNIGHT AND MOONSHINE. 

The trees send forth their shadows long 

In gambols o'er the earth, 
To chase each other's innocence 

In quiet, holy mirth ; 
O'er the glad meadows fast they throng, 

Shapes multiform and tall ; 
And lo ! for them the chaste moonbeam, 

With broadest light doth fall. 
Mad phantoms all, they onward glide, — 
On swiftest wind they seem to ride 

O'er meadow, mount and stream : 
And now, with soft and silent pace, 

They walk as in a dream, 
While each bright earth-flower hides its face 
Of blushes, in their dim embrace. 

Men say, that in this midnight hour, 
The disembodied have power 
To wander as it liketh them. 
By wizard oak and fairy stream, — 

Through still and solemn places, 
And by old walls and tombs, to dream, 

With pale, cold, mournful faces. 
I fear them not ; for they must be 
Spirits of kindest sympathy, 



MIDNIGHT AND MOONSHINE. 103 

Who choose such haunts, and joy to feel 
The beauties of this calm night steal 
Like music o'er them, while they wooed 
The luxury of Solitude. 

Welcome, ye gentle spirits ; then, 

Who love and feel for earth-chained men, — 

Who, in this hour, delight to dwell 

By moss-clad oak and dripping cell, — 

Who joy to haunt each age-dimmed spot, 

Which ruder natures have forgot ; 

And, in majestic solitude. 

Feel every pulse-stroke thrill of good 

To all around, below, above ; — 

Ye are the co-mates whom I love ! 

While, lingering in this moonshine glade, 

I dream of hopes that cannot fade ; 

And pour abroad those phantasies 

That spring from holiest sympathies 

With Nature's moods in this glad hour 

Of silence, moonshine, beauty, power, 

When the busy stir of man is gone, 

And the soul is left with its God alone ! 



104 



THE WATER! THE WATER! 



The Water ! the Water ! 

The joyous brook for me, 
That tuneth through the quiet night, 

Its ever-hving glee. 
The Water ! the Water ! 

That sleepless merry heart, 
Which gurgles on unstintedly, 

And loveth to impart 
To all around it some small measure 
Of its own most perfect pleasure. 

The Water! the Water ! 

The gentle stream for me. 
That gushes from the old gray stone. 

Beside the alder tree. 
The Water ! the Water ! 

That ever-bubbling spring 
I loved and looked on while a child. 

In deepest wondering, — 
And asked it whence it came and went. 
And when its treasures would be spent. 



THE WATER ! THE WATER ! 105 

The Water ! the Water ! 

The merry, wanton brook. 
That bent itself to pleasure me, 

Like mine old shepherd crook. 
The Water ! the Water ! 

That sang so sweet at noon, 
And sweeter still all night, to win 

Smiles from the pale proud moon, 
And from the little fairy faces 
That gleam in heaven's remotest places. 

The Water ! the Water ! 

The dear and blessed thing. 
That all day fed the little flowers 

On its banks blossoming. 
The Water ! the Water ! 

That murmured in my ear, 
Hymns of a saint-like purity. 

That angels well might hear ; 
And whisper in the gates of heaven, 
How meek a pilgrim had been shriven. 

The Water ! the Water ! 

Where I have shed salt tears, 



106 THE WATER ! THE WATER ! 

In loneliness and friendliness, 
A thing of tender years. 

The Water ! the Water ! 
Where I have happy been, 

And showered upon its bosom flowers 
Culled from each meadow green, 

And idly hoped my life would be 

So crowned by love's idolatry. 

The Water! the Water ! 

My heart yet burns to think 
How cool thy fountain sparkled forth, 

For parched lip to drink. 
The Water ! the Water ! 

Of mine own native glen ; 
The gladsome tongue I oft have heard, 

But ne'er shall hear again ; 
Though fancy fills my ear for ayfe 
With sounds that live so far away ! 

The Water ! the Water ! 

The mild and glassy wave, 
Upon whose broomy banks I 've longed 

To find my silent grave. 



THE WATER ! THE WATER ! 107 

The Water ! the Water ! 

O blessed to me thou art ; 
Thus sounding in hfe's soUtude, 

The music of my heart. 
And fining it, despite of sadness, 
With dreamings of departed gladness. 

The Water ! the Water ! 

The mournful pensive tone. 
That whispered to my heart how soon 

This weary life was done. 
The Water ! the Water ! 

That rolled so bright and free. 
And bade me mark how beautiful 

Was its soul's purity ; 
And how it glanced to heaven its wave, 
As wandering on it sought its grave. 






108 



THREE FANCIFUL SUPPOSES. 



Were I a breath of viewless wind, 

As very spirits be, 
Where would I joy at length to find 

I was no longer free ? 
O, Margaret's cheek. 
Whose blushes speak 

Love's purest sympathies, 
Would be the site. 
Where, gleaming bright. 

My prison-dome should rise : 
I 'd live upon that rosy shore, 

And fan it with soft sighs. 
Nor other paradise explore 

Beneath the skies. 

Were I a pranksome Elfin knight. 

Or eke the Faerye king. 
Who when the moonshine glimmers bright. 

Loves to be wandering ; 
Where would I ride, 



THREE FANCIFUL SUPPOSES. 109 

In all the pride 

Of Elfin chivalry-j 
With each sweet sound 
Far floating round, 

Of Faerye minstrelsy ? — 
'Tis o'er her neck of drifted snow, 

Her passion-breathing lip, 
Her dainty chin and noble brow, 

That I would trip. 

Were I a glossy plumaged bird, 

A small glad voice of song. 
Where would my love-lays aye be heard, — 

Where would I nestle long ? — 
In Margaret's ear 
When none were near, 

I 'd strain my little throat, 
To sing fond lays 
In Margaret's praise. 

That could not be forgot ; 
Then on her bosom would I fall. 

And from it never part, — 
Dizzy with joy, and proud to call 

My home her heart ! 



110 



A CAVEAT TO THE WIND. 



Sing high, sing low, thou moody wind, 

It skills not, — for thy glee 
Is ever of a fellow-kind 

With mine own fantasy. 
Go, sadly moan or madly blow 

In fetterless free will. 
Wild spirit of the clouds ! but know 

I ride thy comrade still : 
Loving thy humors, I can be 
Sad, wayward, wild, or mad, like thee. 

Go, and with light and noiseless wing, 
Fan yonder murmuring stream, — 

Brood o'er it, as the sainted thing, 
The spirit of its dream : 

Give to its voice a sweeter tone 
Of calm! and heartfelt gladness ; 



Mfafa 



A CAVEAT TO THE WIND. Ill 

Or, to those old trees, woe-begone, 
Add moan of deeper sadness, — 
It likes me still ; for I can be 
All sympathy of heart, like thee. 



Rush forth, in maddest wrath, to rouse 

The billows of the deep ; 
And in the blustering storm, carouse 

With fiends that never weep. 
Go, tear each fluttering rag away, 

Outshriek the mariner. 
And hoarsely knell the mermaid's lay 

Of death and shipwreck drear ; — 
What reck I, since I still dare be 
Harsh, fierce, and pitiless,* like thee ? 

I love thy storm-shout on the land, 

Thy storm-shout on the sea ; 
Though shapes of death rise on each hand, 

Dismay troops not with me. 
With iron-cheek, that never showed 

The channel of a tear, 
With haughty heart, that never bowed 

Beneath a dastard fear. 



112 A CAVEAT TO THE WIND. 

I rush with thee o'er land and sea, 
Rejoicing in thy thundering glee. 

Lovest thou those cloisters, old and dim. 

Where ghosts at midnight stray, 
To pour abroad unearthly hymn, 

And fright the stars away ? 
Add to their sighs thy hollow tone 

Of saddest melancholy, — 
For I, too, love such places lone. 

And court such guests unjoUy : 
Such haunts, such mates, in sooth, to me 
Be welcome as they are to thee. 

Blow as thou wilt, blow anywhere, 

Wild spirit of the sky. 
It matters not, — earth, ocean, air, 

Still echoes to my cry, 
^ I follow thee ; ' for, where thou art. 

My spirit, too, must be. 
While each chord of this wayward heart. 

Thrills to thy minstrelsy ; 
And, he that feels so, sure must be 
Meet co-mate for a shrew like thee ! 



113 



WHAT IS GLORY? WHAT IS FAME? 



What is Glory ? What is Fame ? 
The echo of a long lost name ; 
A breath J an idle hour's brief talk ; 
The shadow of an arrant nought ; 
A flower that blossoms for a day, 

Dying next morrow ; 
A stream that hurries on its way, 

Singing of sorrow ; — 
The last drop of a bootless shower. 
Shed on a sere and leafless bower ; 
A rose, stuck in a dead-man's breast, - 
This is the World's fame at the best ! 

What is Fame ? and what is Glory ? 

A dream, — a jester's lying story, 

To tickle fools withal, or be 

A theme for second infancy ; 

A joke scrawled on an epitaph ; 

A grin at Death's own ghastly laugh ; 



114 GLORY AND FAME. 

A visioning that tempts the eye. 
But mocks the touch, — nonentity : 
A rainbow, substanceless as bright, 

Fhtting for ever 
O'er hill- top to more distant height, 

Nearing us never ; 
A bubble blown by fond conceit. 
In very sooth itself to cheat ; 
The witch-fire of a frenzied brain ; 
A fortune that to lose were gain ; 
A word of praise, perchance of blame ; 
The wreck of a time-bandied name, — 
Ay, This is glory ! — this is Fame ! 



115 



THE SOLEMN SONG OF A RIGHTEOUS HEARTE. 
After the fashion of an early English Poet. 



There is a mighty Noyse of Bells 
Rushing from the turret free ; 

A solemne tale of Truthe it tells, 
O'er Land and Sea, 

How heartes be breaking fast, and then 
Wax whole againe. 

Poor fluttering Soule ! why tremble soe, 
To quitt Lyfe's fast decaying Tree ; 

Time wormes its core, and it must bowe 
To Fate's decree ; 

Its last branch breakes, but Thou must soare, 
For Evermore. 

Noe more thy wing shal touch grosse Earth ; 
Far under shal its shadows flee, 



116 THE SOLEMN SONG OF 

And al its sounds of Woe or Mirth 

Growe strange to thee. 
Thou wilt not mingle in its noyse. 

Nor court its Joies. 

Pond One ! why cling thus unto Life, 
As if its gaudes were meet for thee ; 

Surely its Follie, Bloodshed, Stryfe, 
Liked never thee ? 

This World growes madder each newe dale. 
Vice beares such sway. 

Couldst thou in Slavish artes excel, 

And crawle upon the supple knee, — 

Couldst thou each Woe- worn wretch repel, — 
This Worldes for Thee. 

Not in this Spheare Man ownes a Brother : 
Then seek another. 

Couldst thou bewraie thy Birthright soe 
As flatter Guilt's prosperitye. 

And laude Oppressiounes iron blowe, — 
This Worldes for Thee. 

Sithence to this thou wilt not bend. 
Life 's at an end. 



A RIGHTEOUS HEARTE. 117 

Couldst thou spurn Yertue meanly clad. 

As if 'twere spotted Infamy, 
And prayse as Good what is most Bad, — 

This Worldes for Thee. 
Sithence thou canst not will it soe, 

Poor Flutterer goe ! 

If Head with Hearte could so accord, 

In bond of perfyte Amitie, 
That Falshood raigned in Thoughte, Deed, Word, — 

This Worldes for Thee. 
But scorning guile. Truth-plighted one ! 

Thy race is run. 

Couldst thou laughe loude, when grieved hearts 
weep, 

And Fiendlyke probe theire Agonye, 
Rich harvest here thou soon wouldst reape, — 

This Worldes for Thee ; 
But with the Weeper thou must weepe, 

And sad watch keep. 

Couldst thou smyle swete when Wrong hath wrung 
The withers of the Poore but Prowde, 

And by the rootes pluck out the tongue 
That dare be lowde 



118 SONG OF A RIGHTEOUS HEARTE. 

In Righteous cause, whate'er may be, — 
This Worldes for Thee. 

This canst thou not ! Then, fluttering thing, 

Unstained in thy puritye. 
Sweep towards heaven with tireless wing, — 

Meet Home for Thee. 
Feare not, the crashing of Lyfe's Tree, — 

God's Love guides Thee. 

And thus it is : — these solemn bells. 

Swinging in the turret free, 
And tolling forth theire sad farewells. 

O'er Land and Sea, 
Telle how Hearts breake, full fast, and then 

Growe whole againe. 



119 



MELANCHOLYE. 



Adieu ! al vaine delightes 
Of calm and moonshine nightes ; 
Adieu ! al pleasant shade 
That forests thicke have made ; 
Adieu ! al musick swete 

That little fountaynes poure. 
When blythe theire waters greete 

The lovesick lyly-flowre. 

Adieu ! the fragrant smel 

Of flowres in boskye dell ; 

And all the merrie notes 

That tril from smal birdes' throates ; 

Adieu ! the gladsome lighte 

Of Day, Morne, Noone, or E'en ; 
And welcome gloomy Nighte, 

When not one star is scene. 

Adieu ! the deafening noyse 
Of cities, and the joyes 



120 MELANCHOLYE. 

Of Fashioun's sicklie birth ; 
Adieu ! al boysterous mirthe, 
Al pageant, pompe, and state, 

And every flauntynge thing 
To which the would-be-great 

Of earth in madness chng. 

Come with me, Melancholye, 
We '11 live like eremites holie, 
In some deepe uncouthe wild 
Where sunbeame never smylde : 
Come with me, pale of hue, 

To some lone silent spot. 
Where blossom never grewe, 

Which man hath quyte forgot. 

Come, with thy thought-filled eye, 
That notes no passer by, 
And drouping solemne heade, 
Where phansyes strange are bred, 
And saddening thoughts doe brood, 

Which idly strive to borrow 
A smyle to vaile thy moode 

Of heart-abyding sorrow. 



MELANCHOLYE. 121 

Come to yon blasted mound 
Of phantom-haunted ground, 
Where spirits love to be ; 
And liste the moody glee 
Of nighte-windes as they moane, 

And the ocean's sad reply e 
To the wild unhallowed tone 

Of the wandering sea-bird's cry. 

There sit with me and keep 
Vigil when al doe sleepe ; 
And when the curfeu bell 
Hath rung its mournfuU knel. 
Let us together blend 

Our mutual sighes and teares, 
Or chaunt some metre penned, 

Of the joies of other yeares. 

Or in cavern hoare and damp, 
Lit by the glow-worm's lampe, 
We '11 muse on the dull theme 
Of Life's heart-sickening dreame, — 
Of Time's resistlesse powre, — 
Of Hope's deceitful lips, — 



122 MELANCHOLYE. 

Of Beauty's short-livde houre, — 
And Glory's dark eclipse ! 

Or, wouldst thou rather chuse 
This World's leaf to peruse, 
Beneath some dripping vault 
That scornes rude Time's assaulte; 
Whose close-ribbed arches still 

Frown in their green old age, 
And stamp an awefuU chill 

Upon that pregnant page ? 

Yes, thither let us turne. 
To this Time-shattered urne. 
And quaintly carved stone, — 
Dim wrackes of ages gone ; 
Here, on this mouldering tomb 

We '11 con that noblest truth, 
The Flesh and Spirit's doome, — 

Dust and Immortall Youthe. 



123 



I AM NOT SAD. 



I AM not sad, though sadness seem 

At times to cloud my brow ; 
I cherished once a foohsh dream, — 
Thank Heaven 't is not so now. 
Truth's sunshine broke, 
And I awoke 
To feel 't was right to bow 
To Fate's decree, and this my doom. 
The darkness of a Nameless Tomb. 

I grieve not, though a tear may fill 

This glazed and vacant eye ; 
Old thoughts will rise, do what we will, 
But soon again they die ; 
An idle gush. 
And all is hush, 
The fount is soon run dry : 
And cheerly now I meet my doom. 
The darkness of a Nameless Tomb. 



124 I AM NOT SAD. 



I am not mad, although I see 
• Things of no better mould 
Than I myself am, greedily 
In Fame's bright page enrolled, 
That they may tell 
The story well, 
What shines may not be gold. 
No, no ! content I court my doom. 
The darkness of a Nameless Tomb. 

The luck is theirs, — the loss is mine, 

And yet no loss at all ; 
The mighty ones of eldest time, 
I ask where they did fall ? 
Tell me the one 
Who e'er could shun 
Touch with Oblivion's pall? 
All bear with me an equal doom. 
The darkness of a Nameless Tomb. 

Brave temple and huge pyramid. 

Hill sepulchred by art. 
The barrow acre-vast where hid 

Moulders some Nimrod's heart ; 



I AM NOT SAD. 125 

Each monstrous birth 

Cumbers old earth, 
But acts a voiceless part. 
Resolving all to mine own doom, 
The darkness of a Nameless Tomb. 

Tradition with her palsied hand, 

And purblind History, may 
Grope and guess well that in this land 
Some great one lived his day ; 
And what is this. 
Blind hit or miss. 
But labor thrown away. 
For counterparts to mine own doom, 
The darkness of a Nameless Tomb. 

I do not peak and pine away, 
Lo ! this deep bowl I quaflf ; 
If sigh I do, you still must say 
It sounds more like a laugh. 
'Tis not too late 
To separate 
The good seed from the chaff ; 
And scoff at those who scorn my doom, 
The darkness of a Nameless Tomb. 



126 I AM NOT SAD, 



I spend no sigh, I shed no tear, 

Though life's first dream is gone ; 
And its bright picturings now appear 
Cold images of stone ; 
I 've learned to see 
The vanity 
Of lusting to be known, 
And gladly hail my changeless doom, 
The darkness of a Nameless Tomb ! 



127 



THE JOYS CF THE WILDERNESS. 



I HAVE a wish, and it is this, that in some uncouth 
glen, 

It were my lot to find a spot unknown by selfish men ; 

Where I might be securely free, like Eremite of old, ' 

From Worldly guile, from Woman's wile, and Friend- 
ships brief and cold ; 

And where I might, with stern delight, enjoy the 
varied form 

Of Nature's mood, in every rude burst of the thun- 
dering storm. 

Then would my life, lacking fierce strife, glide on in 

dreamy gladness. 
Nor would I know the cark and woe which come of 

this world's madness; 
While in a row, like some poor show, its pageantries 

would pass, 
Without a sigh, before mine eye, as shadows o'er a 

glass : 



128 JOYS OF THE WILDERNESS. 

Nonentity these shadows be, — and yet, good Lord ! 

how brave 
That knavish rout doth strut and flout, then shrink 

into the grave ! 

The Wilderness breathes gentleness ; — these waters 

bubbhng free, 
The gallant breeze that stirs the trees, form Heaven's 

own melody ; 
The far-stretched sky, with its bright eye, pours forth 

a tide of love 
On every thing that here doth spring, on all that 

glows above. 
But live with man, — his dark heart scan, — its paltry 

selfishness 
Will show to thee, why men like me, love the lone 

Wilderness ! 



129 



A SOLEMN CONCEIT. 



Stately trees are growing, 
Lusty winds are blowing, 
And mighty rivers flowing 

On, for ever on. 
As stately forms were growing, 
As lusty spirits blowing. 
And as mighty fancies flowing 

On, for ever on ; — 
But there has been leave-taking. 
Sorrow and heart-breaking. 
And a moan, pale Echo's making, 

For the gone, for ever gone ! 

Lovely stars are gleaming. 
Bearded lights are streaming. 
And glorious suns are beaming 

On, for ever on. 
As lovely eyes were gleaming. 
As wondrous lights were streaming, 

9 



130 A SOLEMN CONCEIT. 

And as glorious minds were beaming 

On, for ever on ; — 
But there has been soul-sundering, 
Wailing, and sad wondering ; 
For graves grow fat with plundering 

The gone, for ever gone ! 

We see great eagles soaring, 
We hear deep oceans roaring. 
And sparkling fountains pouring 

On, for ever on. 
As lofty minds were soaring. 
As sonorous voices roaring, 
And as sparkling wits were pouring 

On, for ever on ; — 
But, pinions have been shedding, 
And voiceless darkness spreading. 
Since a measure Death 's been treading 

O'er the gone, for ever gone ! 

Every thing is sundering. 
Every one is wondering. 
And this huge globe goes thundering 
On, for ever on ; 



I 



A SOLEMN CONCEIT. 131 |i 



But, 'mid this wearjr sundering, ^^ 

Heart-breaking, and sad wondering, \ 

And this huge globe's rude thundering I 

On, for ever on, 

I would that I were dreaming .^ 

Where little flowers are gleaming, t|i 

And the long green grass is streaming g 

O'er the gone, for ever gone ! ^J 



i 



132 



THE EXPATRIATED. 



No bird is singing 

In cloud or on tree, 
No eye is beaming 

Glad welcome to me ; 
The forest is tuneless ; 

Its brown leaves fast fall — 
Changed and withered, they fleet 

Like hollow friends all. 

No door is thrown open, 

No banquet is spread ; 
No hand smooths the pillow 

For the Wanderer's head ; 
But the eye of distrust 

Sternly measures his way, 
And glad are the cold lips 

That wish him — good day ! 

Good day ! — I am grateful 
For such gentle prayer, 



THE EXPATRIATED. 133 

Though scant be the cost 

Of that morsel of air. 
Will it clothe, will it feed me, 

Or rest my worn frame ? 
Good day ! wholesome diet, 

A proud heart to tame. 

Now the sun dusks his glories 

Below the blue sea, 
And no star its splendor 

Deems worthy of me ; 
The path I must travel. 

Grows dark as my fate, 
And nature, like man, can 

Wax savage in hate. 

My country ! my country ! 

Though step-dame thou be, 
Yet my heart, in its anguish, 

Cleaves fondly to thee ; 
Still in fancy it lingers 

By mountain and stream. 
And thy name is the spirit 

That rules its wild dream. 



134 THE EXPATRIATED. 

This heart loved thee truly, — 

And, O ! it bled free, 
"When it led on to glory 

Thy proud chivalry ; 
And, O ! it gained much from 

Thy prodigal hand, — 
The freedom to break in 

The stranger's cold land ! 



135 



FACTS FROM FAIRYLAND. 



then, I see, Q,ueen Mab hath been with you ! * 



WouLDST thou know of me 

Where our dweUings be ? 

'T is under this hill, 

Where the moonbeam chill 
Silvers the leaf and brightens the blade, — 

'T is under this mound 

Of greenest ground. 
That our crystal palaces are made. 

Wouldst thou know of me 

What our food may be ? 

'T is the sweetest breath 

Which the bright flower hath. 
That blossoms in wilderness afar, — 

And we sip it up. 

In a harebell cup, 
By the winking light of the tweering star. 



136 FACTS FROM FAIRYLAND. 

Wouldst thou know of me 

What our drink may be ? 

^Tis the freshest dew, 

And the clearest, too, 
That ever hung on leaf or flower ; 

And merry we skink 

That wholesome drink, 
Thorough the quiet of the midnight hour. 

Wouldst thou know of me 

What our pastimes be? 

'T is the hunt and halloo, 

The dim greenwood through ; 
O, bravely we prance it with hound and horn, 

O'er moor and fell, 

And hollow dell. 
Till the notes of our Woodcraft wake the morn. 

Wouldst thou know of me 
What our garments be ? 
'Tis the viewless thread. 
Which the gossamers spread 
As they float in the cool of a summer eve bright, 



FACTS FROM FAIRYLAND. 137 I 



And the down of the rose, 
Form doublet and hose 
For our Squires of Dames on each festal night. 



11 



.■I 



Wouldst thou know of me '^li 

When our revelries be ? ;o 

'T is in the still night, % 

When the moonshine white 
Glitters in glory o'er land and sea, 
That, with nimble foot, 
To tabor and flute, 
We whirl with our loves round yon glad old tree. 



138 



CERTAIN PLEASANT VERSES TO THE LADY OF 
MY HEART. 



The murmur of the merry brook, 

As gushingly and free 
It wimples with its sun-bright look, 

Far down yon sheltered lea, 
Humming to every drowsy flower 

A low, quaint lullaby. 
Speaks to my spirit, at this hour, 

Of Love and thee. 

The music of the gay green wood, 

When every leaf and tree 
Is coaxed by winds of gentlest mood, 

To utter harmony ; 
And the small birds that answer make 

To the wind's fitful glee, 
In me most blissful visions wake. 

Of Love and thee. 

The rose perks up its blushing cheek, 
So soon as it can see 



TO THE LADY OF MY HEART. 139 

Along the eastern hills one streak 

Of the Sun's majesty : 
Laden with dewy gems, it gleams 

A precious freight to me, 
For each pure drop thereon me seems 

A type of thee. 

And when, abroad in summer morn, 

I hear the blythe bold bee 
Winding aloft his tiny horn, 

(An errant knight perdy,) 
That winged hunter of rare sweets 

O'er many a far country. 
To me a lay of love repeats, 

Its subject — thee. 

And when, in midnight hour, I note 

The stars so pensively. 
In their mild beauty, onward float 

Through heaven's own silent sea ; 
My heart is in their voyaging 

To realms where spirits be. 
But its mate, in such wandering, 

Is ever thee ! 



140 TO THE LADY OF MY HEART. 

But O, the murmur of the brook, 

The music of the tree : 
The rose with its sweet shamefaced look. 

The booming of the bee ; 
The course of each bright voyager 

In heaven's unmeasured sea, 
V Would not one heart-pulse of me stir, 

Loved I not thee ! 



141 



BENEATH A PLACID BROW. 



Beneath a placid brow 

And tear-unstained cheek, 
To bear as I do now 

A heart that well could break ; 
To simulate a smile 

Amid the wrecks of grief, — 
To herd among the vile. 

And therein seek relief, — 
For the bitterness of thought 
Were joyance dearly bought. 

When will man learn to bear 

His heart nailed on his breast, 
With all its lines of care 

In nakedness confessed ? — 
Why, in this solemn mask 

Of passion- wasted life. 
Will no one dare the task. 

To speak his sorrows rife 7 — 
Will no one bravely tell. 
His bosom is a hell ? 



142 BENEATH A PLACID BROW. 

I scorn this hated scene 

Of masking and disguise. 
Where men on men still gleam, 

With falseness in their eyes ; 
Where all is counterfeit, 

And truth hath never say ; 
Where hearts themselves do cheat. 

Concealing hope's decay. 
And writhing at the stake, 
Themselves do liars make. 

Go, search thy heart, poor fool ! 

And mark its passions well ; 
^T were time to go to school, — 

'T were time the truth to tell, — 
'Twere time this world should cast 

Its infant slough away, 
And hearts burst forth at last 

Into the light of day ; — 
'Twere time all learned to be 
Fit for Eternity ! 



^^^^^ta 



iiiMMi 



143 



THE COVENANTERS' BATTLE CHANT. 



To BATTLE ! to battle ! 

To slaughter and strife ! 
For a sadj broken Covenant 

We barter poor life. 
The great God of Judah 

Shall smite with our hand, 
And break down the idols 

That cumber the land. 

Uplift every voice 

In prayer, and in song ; 
Remember the battle 

Is not to the strong ; — 
Lo, the Ammonites thicken ! 

And onward they come, 
To the vain noise of trumpet, 

Of cymbal, and drum. 

They haste to the onslaught. 
With hagbut and spear ; 



144 THE covenanters' 



They lust for a banquet 
That 's deathful and dear. 

Now, horseman and footman, 
Sweep down the hill side : 

They come, like fierce Pharaohs, 
To die in their pride ! 

See, long plume and pennon 

Stream gay in the air ; 
They are given us for slaughter, ■ 

Shall God's people spare ? 
Nay, nay ; lop them off, — 

Friend, father, and son ; 
All earth is athirst till 

The good work be done. 

Brace tight every buckler. 

And lift high the sword ! 
For biting must blades be 

That fight for the Lord. 
Remember, remember, 

How Saints' blood was shed, 
As free as the rain, and 

Homes desolate made ! 



Among them ! — among them ! 

Unburied bones cry ; 
Avenge us, — or, Uke us, 

Faith's true martyrs die. 
Hew, hew down the spoilers ! 

Slay on, and spare none : 
Then shout forth in gladness, 

Heaven's battle is won ! 



BATTLE CHANT. 



145 



10 



146 



TIM THE TACKET. 
A Lyrical Ballad, supposed to be written by W. W. 



A BARK is lying on the sands, 
No rippling wave is sparkling near her ; 
She seems unmanned of all her hands, — 
There 's not a soul on board to steer her ! 

'Tis strange to see a ship-shape thing 
Upon a lonely beach thus lying, 
While mystic winds for ever sing 
Among its shrouds like spirits sighing. 

O, can it be a spectre-ship, 
Forwearied of the storm and ocean. 
That here hath ended its last trip, 
And sought repose from ceaseless motion ? 

I deem amiss : for yonder, see, 

A sailor struts in dark-blue jacket, — 

A little man with face of glee, — 

His neighbors call him Tim the Tacket. 



TIM THE TACKET. 147 

I know him well ; the master he 

Of a small bark, — an Irish coaster ; 

His heart is like the ocean, free, 

And like the breeze his tongue 's a boaster. 

He is a father, too, I 'm told, 
Of children ten, and some say twenty ; 
But it's no matter, he's groAvn old, 
And, ten or more, he has got plenty ! 

List ! now he sings a burly stave 

Of waves and winds and shipwrecks many. 

Of flying fish and dolphins brave. 

Of mermaids lovely but uncanny. 

Right oft, I ween, he joys to speak 

Of slim maids in the green waves dancing, 

Or singing in some lonesome creek. 

While kembing locks like sunbeams glancing. 

O, he hath tales of wondrous things 
Spied in the vast and gousty ocean ; 
Of monstrous fish, whose giant springs 
Give to the seas their rocking motion ; 



148 TIM THE TACKET. 

And serpents huge whose rings embrace 
Some round leagues of the great Pacific ; 
And men of central Ind, sans face, 
But not on that head less terrific ! 

Lo ! he hath lit a brown cigar, 
A special, smooth-skinned, real Havannah ; 
And swirling smoke he puffs afar, — 
'T is sweet to him as desert manna ! 

Away, away the reek doth go. 
In wiry thread or heavy volume ; 
Now black, now blue, gold, gray, or snow 
In color, and in height a column ! 

His little eyes, deep-set, and hedged 
All round and round with bristles hoary, 
Do twinkle like a hawk's new-fledged, — 
Sure he hath dreams of marvellous glory ! 

Well, I would rather be that wight. 
Contented, puffing, midst his tackling. 
Than star-gemmed lord or gartered knight, 
In masquerade or senate cackling. 



TIM THE TACKET. 149 

He suns his limbs upon the deck, 
He hears the music of the ocean ; 
He hves not on another's beck, 
He pines not after court promotion. 

He is unto himself, — he is 
A little world within another ; 
And furthermore he knoweth this, 
That all mankind to him is brother. 

He sings his songs, and smokes his weed, 
He spins his yarn of monstrous fables, 
He cracks his biscuit, and at need 
Can soundly sleep on coiled-up cables. 

Although the sea be sometimes rough. 
His bark is stout, its rudder steady. 
At other whiles 'tis calm enough. 
And buxom as a gentle lady. 

In sooth, too, 'tis a pleasant thing, 
To sail, and feel the sea-breeze blowing 
About one's cheek, — O ! such doth bring 
Full many a free-born thought and glowing. 



150 TIM THE TACKET. 

For who upon the deep, deep sea, 

Ere dwelt and saw its great breast heaving, 

But, by a kindred sympathy, 

Felt his own heart its trammels leaving ? 

The wide and wild, the strange and grand, 
Commingle with his inmost spirit ; 
He feels a riddance from the land, — 
A boundlessness he may inherit. 

Good night, thou happy, ancient man ! 
Farewell, thou mariner so jolly ! 
I pledge thee in this social can, 
Thou antipode of melancholy ! 



151 



THE WITCHES' JOYS. 



When night winds rave 
O'er the fresh scooped grave, 
And the dead therein that He, 
Glare upwaj:d to the sky ; 
When gibbering imps sit down. 
To feast on lord or clown. 
And tear the shroud away 
From their lithe and pallid prey ; 
Then clustering close, how grim 
They munch each withered limb ! 
Or quarrel for dainty rare. 
The lip of lady fair, — 
The tongue of high-born dame, 
That never would defame. 
And was of scandal free 
As any mute could be ! 
Or suck the tintless cheek 
Of maiden mild and meek ; 



152 THE WITCHES' JOYS. 

And when in revel rout 
They kick peeled skulls about, 
And shout in maddest mirth, — 
These dull toys awed the earth ! 
O then, O then, O then. 
We hurry forth amain ; 
For with such eldritch cries, 
Begin our revelries ! 

n. 

When the murderer's blanched corse 
Swings with a sighing hoarse 
From gibbet and from chain. 
As the bat sucks out his brain. 
And the owlet pecks his eyes, 
And the wild fox gnaws his thighs ; 
While the raven croaks with glee. 
Lord of the dead man's tree ; 
And rocked on that green skull, 
With sated look and dull, 
In gloomy pride looks o'er 
The waste and wildered moor, 
And dreams some other day 
Shall bring him fresher prey ; 



THE WITCHES' JOYS. 153 

When over bog and fen, 
To lure wayfaring men, 
Malicious spirits trail 
A ground fire thin and pale. 
Which the belated wight 
Pursues the live-long night, 
Till in the treacherous ground 
An unmade grave is found. — 

O then, O then, O then, 

We hurry forth amain, 
Ha ! ha ! his feeble cries 
Begin our revelries. 

m. 

When the spirits of the North 
Hurl howling tempests forth : 
When seas of lightning flare. 
And thunders choke the air ; 
When the ocean starts to life. 
To madness, horror, strife. 
And the goodly bark breaks up, 
Like ungirded drinking cup, 
And each stately mast is split 
In some rude thunder-fit : 



154 THE WITCHES' JOYS. 

And, like feather on the foam, 

Float shattered plank and boom ; 

When, midst the tempest's roar. 

Pale listeners on the shore 

Hear the curse and shriek of men, 

As they sink and rise again 

On the gurly billow's back. 

And their strong broad breast-bones crack 

On the iron-ribbed coast. 

As back to hell they 're tossed, — 

O then, O then, O then. 

We hurry forth again ! 
For amid such lusty cries, 
Begin our revelries. 

IV. 

When aged parents flee 
The noble wreck to see. 
And mark their sons roll in 
Through foam and thundering din, 
All mottled black and blue, — 
Their very lips cut through 
In the agony of death, 
While drifting on their path ; 



THE WITCHES' JOYS. 155 

When gentle maidens stand 
Upon the wreck-rich strand. 
And every laboring wave 
That doth their small feet lave, 
Gives them a ghastly lover 
To wring their white hands over. 
And tear their spray- wet hair 
In the madness of despair ; 

O then, O then, O then, 

We hurry home amain ; 
For their heart-piercing cries, 
Shame our wild revelries ! 



^■ 



156 



A SABBATH SUMMER NOON. 



The calmness of this noontide hour, 

The shadow of this wood, 
The fragrance of each wilding flower, 

Are marvellously good ; 
O, here crazed spirits breathe the balm 

Of nature's solitude ! 

It is a most delicious calm 
That resteth everywhere, — 

The holiness of soul-sung psalm. 
Of felt but voiceless prayer ! 

With hearts too full to speak their bliss, 
God's creatures silent are. 

They silent are ; but not the less, 

In this most tranquil hour 
Of deep unbroken dreaminess. 

They own that Love and Power 
Which, like the softest sunshine, rests 

On every leaf and flower. 



A SABBATH SUMMER NOON. 157 

How silent are the song-filled nests 
That crowd this drowsy tree, — 

How mute is every feathered breast 
That swelled with melody ! 

And yet bright bead-like eyes declare 
This hour is ecstasy. 

Heart forth ! as uncaged bird through air, 

And mingle in the tide 
Of blessed things, that, lacking care, 

Now full of beauty glide 
Around thee, in their angel hues 

Of joy and sinless pride. 

Here, on this green bank that o'er- views 

The far retreating glen. 
Beneath the spreading beech-tree muse, 

On all within thy ken ; 
For lovelier scene shall never break 

On thy dimmed sight again. 

Slow stealing from the tangled brake 

That skirts the distant hill. 
With noiseless hoof two bright fawns make 



158 A SABBATH SUMMER NOON. 

For yonder lapsing rill ; 
Meek children of the forest gloom, 
Drink on, and fear no ill ! 

And buried in the yellow broom 

That crowns the neighboring height. 

Couches a loutish shepherd groom. 
With all his flocks in sight ; 

Which dot the green braes gloriously, 
With spots of living light. 

It is a sight that filleth me 

With meditative joy, 
To mark these dumb things curiously. 

Crowd round their guardian boy ; 
As if they felt this Sabbath hour 

Of bliss lacked all alloy. 

I bend me towards the tiny flower. 
That underneath this tree 

Opens its little breast of sweets 
In meekest modesty. 

And breathes the eloquence of love 
In muteness, Lord ! to thee. 



A SABBATH SUMMER NOON. 159 

There is no breath of wind to move 
The flag-hke leaves, that spread 

Their grateful shadow far above 
This turf-supported head ; 

All sounds are gone, — all murmurings 
With living nature wed. 

The babbling of the clear well-springs, 

The whisperings of the trees, 
And all the cheerful jargonings 

Of feathered hearts at ease ; 
That whilome filled the vocal wood, 

Have hushed their minstrelsies. 

The silentness of night doth brood 
O'er this bright summer noon ; 

And nature, in her holiest mood. 
Doth all things well attune 

To joy, in the religious dreams 
Of green and leafy June. 

Far down the glen in distance gleams 

The hamlet's tapering spire. 
And, glittering in meridial beams, 



160 A SABBATH SUMMER NOON. 

Its vane is tongued with fire ; 
And hark how sweet its silvery bell, — 
And hark the rustic choir ! 

The holy sounds float up the dell 

To fill my ravished ear, 
And now the glorious anthems swell 

Of worshippers sincere, — 
Of hearts bowed in the dust, that shed 

Faith's penitential tear. 

Dear Lord ! thy shadow is forth spread 

On all mine eye can see ; 
And filled at the pure fountain head 

Of deepest piety, 
My heart loves all created things, 

And travels home to thee. 

Around me while the sunshine flings 

A flood of mocky gold. 
My chastened spirit once more sings, 

As it was wont of old. 
That lay of gratitude which burst 

From young heart uncontrolled. 



A SABBATH SUMMER NOON. 161 

When in the midst of nature nursed, 

Sweet influences fell 
On chidly hearts that were athirst, 

Like soft dews in the bell 
Of tender flowers, that bowed their heads, 

And breathed a fresher smell. 

So, even now this hour hath sped 

In rapturous thought o'er me. 
Feeling myself with nature wed, — 

A holy mystery, — 
A part of earth, a part of heaven, 

A part, great God ! of Thee. 

Fast fade the cares of life's dull sweven. 

They perish as the weed. 
While unto me the power is given, 

A moral deep to read 
In every silent throe of mind 

External beauties breed. 



11 



162 

A MONODY. 

_4 — 

I. 

Hour after hour, 

Day after day, 
Some gentle flower 

Or leaf gives way 
Within the bower 

Of human hearts ; 
Tear after tear 

In anguish starts, 
For, green or sere. 

Some loved leaf parts 
From the arbere 

Of human hearts ; — 
The keen winds blow. 
Rain, hail, and snow 

Fall everywhere ! 
And one by one. 
As life's sands run. 

These loved things fare. 
Till plundered hearts at last are won 

To woo despair. 



A MONODY. 163 

II. 

Why linger on, 

Fate's mockery here. 
When each is gone, 

Heart-loved, heart-dear? 
Stone spells to stone 

Its weary tale, 
How graves were filled, 

How cheeks waxed pale. 
How hearts were chilled 

With biting gale. 
And life's strings thrilled 

With sorrow's wail. 
Flower follows flower 
In the heart's bower, 

To fleet away ; 
While leaf on leaf. 
Sharp grief on grief, — 

Night chasing day. 
Tell as they fall, all joy is brief. 

Life but decay. 

III. 

The sea- weed thrown 
By wave or wind, 



164 A MONODY. 

On strand unknown, 

Lone grave to find ; 
Methinks may own. 

Of kindred more 
Than I dare claim 

On life's bleak shore. 
Name follows name 

For evermore, 
As swift waves shame 

Slow waves before ; - 
For keen winds blow ; 
Rain, hail, and snow 
' Fall everywhere. 
Till life's sad tree, 
In mockery, 

Skeletoned bare 
Of every leaf, is left to be 

Mate of despair. 

IV. 

The world is wide. 
Is rich and fair, 

Its things of pride 
Flaunt everywhere ; 



A MONODY. 165 

But can it hide 

Its hollowness ? 
One mighty shell 

Of bitterness. 
One grand farewell 

To happiness. 
One solemn knell 

To love's caress, 
It seems to me. 
The shipless sea 

Hath bravery more 
Than this waste scene, 
Where what hath been 

Beloved of yore. 
In the heart's bower so fresh and green, 

Fades evermore ! 

V. 

From all its kind. 

This wasted heart — 
This moody mind 

Now drifts apart ! 
It longs to find 

The tideless shore, 



166 A MONODY. 

Where rests the wreck 

Of Heretofore, — 
The glorious wreck 

Of mental ore ; 
The great heartbreak 

Of loA^es no more. 
I drift alone, 
For all are gone 

Dearest to me ; 
And hail the wave 
That to the grave 

On hurrieth me : v 
Welcome, thrice welcome, then, thy wave. 

Eternity! 



167 



THEY COME! THE MERRY SUMMER MONTHS. 
— ♦— 

They come ! the merry summer months of Beauty, 
Song, and Flowers ; 

They come ! the gladsome months that bring thick 
leafiness to bowers. 

Up, up, my heart ! and walk abroad, fling cark and 
care aside. 

Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peaceful wa- 
ters glide ; 

Or, underneath the shadoAV vast of patriarchal tree, 

Scan through* its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt 
tranquillity. 

The grass is soft, its velvet touch is grateful to the 

hand. 
And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze is 

sweet and bland ; 
The daisy and the buttercup are nodding courteously, 
It stirs their blood, with kindest love, to bless and 

welcome thee : 
And mark how with thine own thin locks, — they 

now are silvery gray, — 
That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whispering 

' Be gay ! ' 



168 THEY COME ! 

There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of yon 
sky, 

But hath its own winged mariners to give it melody : 

Thou see' St their glittering fans outspread all gleam- 
ing like red gold, 

And hark ! with shrill pipe musical, their merry 
course they hold. 

God bless them all, these little ones, who far above 
this earth, 

Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a no- 
bler mirth. 

But soft ! mine ear upcaught a sound, from yonder 
wood it came ! 

The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his 
own glad name ; — 

Yes, it is he ! the hermit bird, that apart from all 
his kind, 

Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft west- 
ern wind ; 

Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! he sings again, — his notes are 
void of art. 

But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep founts 
of the heart. 



THE MERRY SUMMER MONTHS. 169 

Good Lord ! it is a gracious boon for thought-crazed 

wight Uke me, 
To smell again these summer flowers beneath this 

summer tree ! 
To suck once more in every breath their little souls 

away, 
And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth's bright 

summer day. 
When, rushing forth like untamed colt, the reckless 

truant boy, 
Wandered through greenwoods all day long, a mighty 

heart of joy ! 

I 'm sadder now, I have had cause ; but O ! I 'm 
proud to think 

That each pure joy-fount loved of yore, I yet delight 
to drink ; — 

Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the calm 
unclouded sky. 

Still mingle music with my dreams, as in the days- 
gone by. 

When summer's loveliness and light fall round me 
dark and cold, 

I '11 bear indeed life's heaviest curse, — a heart that 
hath waxed old ! 



170 



CHANGE SWEEPETH OVER ALL. 



Change sweepeth over all ! 

In showers leaves fall 
From the tall forest tree ; 

On to the sea 
Majestic rivers roll. 
It is their goal. 
Each speeds to perish in man's simple seeming, — 

Each disappears : 
One common end overtakes life's idle dreaming. 
Dust, darkness, tears ! 

Day hurries to its close : 

The sun that rose 
A miracle of light, 

Yieldeth to night ; 
The skirt of one vast pall 

O'ershadows all. 
Yon firmamental cresset lights forth shining, 

Heaven's highest born ! 
Droop on their thrones, and, like pale spirits pining. 

Vanish with morn. 



CHANGE SWEEPETH OVER ALL. 171 

O'er cities of old days, 

Dumb creatures graze ; 
Palace and pyramid 

In dust are hid ; 
Yea, the sky-searching tower 

Stands but its hour. 
Oceans their wide-stretched beds are ever shifting, 

Sea turns to shore, 
And star sand systems through dread space are drifting 

To shine no more. 

Names perish that erst smote 

Nations remote, 
With panic, fear, or wrong ; 

Heroic song 
Grapples with time in vain ; 

On to the main 
Of dim forgetfulness for ever rolling. 

Earth's bubbles burst; 
Time o'er the wreck of ages sternly tolling 

The last accursed. 

The world is waxing old, 
Heaven dull and cold ; 



172 CHANGE SWEEPETH OVER ALL. 

Nought lacketh here a close 

Save human woes. 
Yet they too have an end, — 
Death is man's friend : 
Doomed for a while, his heart must go on breaking 

Day after day, 
But light, love, life, — all, — all at last forsaking, 
Clay claspeth clay ! 



SONGS 



SOINGS. 



O, WAE BE TO THE ORDERS. 



O WAE be to the orders that marched my luve awa'. 
And wae be to the cruel cause that gars my tears 

doun fa', 
O wae be to the bluidy wars in Hie Germanie, 
For they hae ta'en my luve, and left a broken heart 

to me. 

The drums beat in the mornin' afore the scriech o' day, 
And the wee wee fifes piped loud and shrill, while yet 

the morn was gray ; 
The bonnie flags were a' unfurled, a gallant sight to 

see. 
But waes me for my sodger lad that marched to 

Germanic. 

O, lang, lang is the travel to the bonnie Pier o' Leith, 
O dreich it is to gang on foot wi' the snaw-drift in 
the teeth ! 



176 O, WAE BE TO THE ORDERS. 

And Oj the cauld wind froze the tear that gathered in 

my e'e, 
When I gade there to see my luve embark for Ger- 

manie ! 

I looked ower the braid blue sea, sae long as could be 
seen 

Ae wee bit sail upon the ship that my sodger lad was in; 

But the wind was blawin' sair and snell, and the ship 
sailed speedilie, 

And the waves and cruel wars hae twinned my win- 
some luve frae me. 

I never think o' dancin, and I downa try to sing, 
But a' the day I spier what news kind neibour bodies 

bring ; 
I sometimes knit a stocking, if knittin' it may be. 
Syne for every loop that I cast on, I am sure to let 

doun three. 

My father says I 'm in a pet, my mither jeers at me. 
And bans me for a dautit wean, in dorts for aye to be ; 
But little weet they o' the cause that drumles sae 

my e'e : 
O they hae nae winsome luve like mine in the wars 

o' Germanic! 



177 



WEARIE'S WELL. 



In a saft simmer gloamin'. 

In yon dowie dell. 
It was there we twa first met 

By Wearie's cauld well. 
We sat on the brume bank 

And looked in the burn. 
But sidelang we looked on 

Ilk ither in turn. 

The corn-craik was chirming 

His sad eerie cry. 
And the wee stars were dreaming 

Their path through the sky ; 
The burn babbled freely 

Its love to ilk flower, 
But we heard and we saw nought 

In that blessed hour. 

We heard and we saw nought 
Above or around ; 

12 



178 wearie's well. 



We felt that our love lived, 
And loathed idle sound. 

I gazed on your sweet face 
Till tears filled my e'e, 

And they drapt on your wee loof,- 
A warld's wealth to me. 

Now the winter's snaw 's fa'ing 

On bare holm and lea ; 
And the cauld wind is strippin' 

Ilk leaf aff the tree. 
But the snaw fa's not faster, 

Nor leaf disna part 
Sae sune frae the bough, as 

Faith fades in your heart. 

Ye 've waled out anither 

Your bridegroom to be ; 
But can his heart luve sae 

As mine luvit thee ? 
Ye '11 get biggings and mailins, 

And monie braw claes ; 
But they a' winna buy back 

The peace o' past days. 



WEARIE'S WELL. 179 

Fareweel, and for ever. 

My first luve and last, 
May thy joys be to come, — 

Mine live in the past. 
In sorrow and sadness. 

This hour fa's on me ; 
But light, as thy luve, may 

It fleet over thee ! 



180 

SONG OF THE DANISH SEA-KING. 
— • — 

Our bark is on the waters deep, our bright blade 's 

in our hand, 
Our birthright is the ocean vast, — we scorn the 

girdled land ; 
And the hollow wind is our music brave, and none 

can bolder be 
Than the hoarse - tongued tempest raving o'er a 

proud and swelling sea ! 

Our bark is dancing on the waves, its tall masts 
quivering bend 

Before the gale, which hails us now with the hollo 
of a friend : 

And its prow is sheering merrily the upcurled bil- 
low's foam. 

While our hearts, with throbbing gladness, cheer 
old Ocean as our home ! 

Our eagle- wings of might we stretch before the gal- 
lant wind, 

And we leave the tame and sluggish earth a dim 
mean speck behind ; 



SONG OF THE DANISH SEA-KING. 181 

We shoot into the untracked deep, as earth-freed 

spirits soar, 
Like stars of fire through boundless space, — through 

realms without a shore ! 

Lords of this wide-spread wilderness of waters, we 

bound free, 
The haughty elements alone dispute our sovereignty; 
No landmark doth our freedom let, for no law of 

man can mete 
The sky which arches o'er our head, — the waves 

which kiss our feet ! 

The warrior of the land may back the wild horse, 
in his pride ; 

But a fiercer steed we dauntless breast, — the un- 
tamed ocean tide ; 

And a nobler tilt our bark careers, as it quells the 
saucy wave, 

While the Herald storm peals o'er the deep the 
glories of the brave. 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! the wind is up, — it bloweth fresh 

and free, 
And every cord instinct with life, pipes loud its 

fearless glee ; 



182 SONG OF THE DANISH SEA-KING. 

Big swell the bosomed sails with joy, and they 
madly kiss the spray, 

As proudly, through the foaming surge, the Sea- 
Kin g bears away ! 



183 



THE CAVALIER'S SONG. 



A STEED ! a steed of matchlesse speed, 

A sword of metal keene ! 
All else to noble heartes is drosse, 

All else on earth is meane. 
The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde, 

The rowlinge of the drum, 
The clangor of the trumpet lowde. 

Be soundes from heaven that come ; 
And O ! the thundering presse of knightes 

Whenas their war cryes swell, 
May tole from heaven an angel bright, 

And rouse a fiend from hell. 

Then mounte ! then mounte, brave gallants, all, 

And don your helmes amaine : 
Deathe's couriers. Fame and Honor, call 
" Us to the field againe. 
No shrewish teares shall fill our eye 

When the sword-hilt 's in our hand, — 
Heart whole we'll part, and no whit sighe 

For the fayrest of the land ; 



184 THE CAVALIER'S SONG. 

Let piping swaine, and craven wight, 
Thus weepe and puhng crye, 

Our business is hke men to light, 
And hero-hke to die ! 



185 



THE MERRY GALLANT. 



The Merry Gallant girds his sword, 
And dons his helm in mickle glee ; 
He leaves behind his lady-love 
For tented fields and deeds which prove 
Stout hardiment and constancy. 

When round him rings the din of arms, - 

The notes of high-born chivalry. 
He thinks not of his bird in bower. 
And scorns to own Love's tyrant power 
Amid the combats of the Free. 

Yet in the midnight watch, I trow, 

When cresset lights all feebly burn. 
Will hermit Fancy sometimes roam 
With eager travel back to home. 

Where smiles and tears await — return. 



186 THE MERRY GALLANT. 

^ Away ! away ! ' he boldly sings, 

^ Be thrown those thoughts which cling to me ; 
That mournful look and glistering eye, — 
That quivering lip and broken sigh ; — 
Why fill each shrine of memory ? 

^ O, that to-morrow's dawn would rise 
To light me on my path of glory, 
Where I may pluck from niggard fame 
Her bravest laurels, — and the name 
That long shall live in minstrel story ! 

' Then, when my thirst for fame is dead, 
Soft love may claim his wonted due ; 
But now when levelled lances gleam, 
And chargers snort, and banners stream, 
To lady's love a long adieu ! ' 



187 



THE KNIGHT'S SONG. 



Endearing ! endearing ! 

Why so endearing 
Are those dark lustrous eyes, 

Through their silk fringes peering? 
They love me ! they love me ! 

Deeply, sincerely ; 
And more than aught else on earth, 

I love them dearly. 

Endearing ! endearing ! 

Why so endearing 
Glows the glad sunny smile 

On thy soft cheek appearing ? 
It brightens ! it brightens ! 

As I am nearing ; 
And 't is thus that thy fond smile 

Is ever endearing. 

Endearing ! endearing ! 
Why so endearing 



188 THE KNIGHT'S SONG. 

Is that lute breathing voice 

Which my rapt soul is hearing? 

'Tis singingj 'tis singing 
Thy deep love for me, 

And my faithful heart echoes 
Devotion to thee. 

Endearing! endearing! 

Why so endearing 
At each Passage of Arms 

Is the herald's bold cheering 7 
'T is then thou art kneeling 

With pure hands to heaven. 
And each prayer of thy heart 

For my good lance is given. 

Endearing ! endearing ! 

Why so endearing 
Is the fillet of silk 

That my right arm is wearing ? 
Once it veiled the bright bosom 

That beats but for me ; 
Now it circles the a^rm that 

Wins glory for thee ! 



189 



THE TROOPER'S DITTY. 



Boot, boot into the stirrup, lads, 

And hand once more on rein ; 
Up, up into the saddle, lads, 

A-field we ride again : 
One cheer, one cheer for dame or dear, 

No leisure now to sigh, 
God bless them all, — we have their prayers. 

And they our hearts, — ^ Good-bye ! ' 
Off, off we ride in reckless pride, 

As gallant troopers may. 
Who have old scores to settle, and 

Long slashing swords to pay. 

The trumpet calls, — ' trot out, trot out,' — 

We cheer the stirring sound ; 
Swords forth, my lads, — through smoke and dust 

We thunder o'er the ground. 
Tramp, tramp, we go through sulphury clouds, 

That blind us while we sing, — 



190 THE trooper's DITTY. 

Woe worth the knave who follows not 

The banner of the King ; 
But luck befall each trooper tall, 

That cleaves to saddle-tree, 
Whose long sword carves on rebel sconce. 

The rights of Majesty. 

Spur on, my lads ; the trumpet sounds 

Its last and stern command, — 
^ A charge ! a charge ! ' — an ocean burst 

Upon a stormy strand. 
Ha ! ha ! how thickly on our casques 

Their pop-guns rattle shot ; 
Spur on, my lads, we '11 give it them 

As sharply as we 've got. 
Now for it : — now, bend to the work, — 

Their lines begin to shake ; 
Now, through and through them, — bloody lanes 

Our flashing sabres make ! 

^ Out one, — cut two, — first point,' and then 

We '11 parry as we may ; 
On, on the knaves, and give them steel 
In bellyfuls to day. 



THE TROOPER'S DITTY. 191 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! for Church and State, 

For Country and for Crown, 
We slash away, and right and left 

Hew rogues and rebels down. 
Another cheer ! the field is clear, 

The day is all our own ; 
Done like our sires, — done like the swords 

God gives to guard the Throne ! 



192 



HE IS GONE! HE IS GONE! 



He is gone ! he is gone ! 

Like the leaf from the tree ; 
Or the down that is blown 

By the wind o'er the lea. 
He is fled, the light-hearted ! 
Yet a tear must have started 
To his eye, when he parted 

From love-stricken me ! 

He is fled ! he is fled ! 

Like a gallant so free, 
Plumed cap on his head. 

And sharp sword by his knee ; 
While his gay feathers fluttered. 
Surely something he muttered. 
He at least must have uttered 

A farewell to me ! 

He 's away ! he 's away 
To far lands o'er the sea, — 



HE IS GONE ! HE IS GONE ! 193 

And long is the day 

Ere home he can be ; 
But where'er his steed prances, 
Amid thronging lances, 
Sure he '11 think of the glances 

That love stole from me ! 

He is gone ! he is gone ! 

Like the leaf from the tree ; 
But his heart is of stone 

If it ne'er dream of me ! 
For I dream of him ever : 
His buff-coat and beaver, 
And long sword, O, never 

Are absent from me !■ 



13 



194 



THE FORESTER'S CAROL. 

— ♦— 

Lusty Hearts ! to the wood, to the merry green 
wood, 
While the dew with strung pearls loads each 
blade, 
And the first blush of dawn brightly streams o'er 
the lawn, 
Like the smile of a rosy-cheeked maid. 

Our horns with wild music ring glad through each 
shaw, 
And our broad arrows rattle amain ; 
For the stout bows we draw, to the green woods 
give law. 
And the Might is the Right once again ! 

Mark yon herds, as they brattle and brush down 
the glade ; 

Pick the fat, let the lean rascals go. 
Under favor 't is meet that we tall men should eat, — 

Nock a shaft and strike down that proud doe ! 



■ . .'.-,..«^^l >.u..\U.«;^,... 



THE FORESTER'S CAROL, 195 

Well delivered, parfay ! convulsive she leaps, — 
One bound more, — then she drops on her side ; 

Our steel hath bit smart the life-strings of her heart, 
And cold now lies the green forest's pride. 

Heave her up, and away ! — should any base churl 

Dare to ask why we range in this wood. 
There 's a keen arrow yare, in each broad belt to 

spare, 
That will answer the knave in his blood ! 

Then forward, my Hearts ! like the bold reckless 
breeze 

Our life shall whirl on in mad glee ; 
The long bows we bend, to the world's latter end, 

Shall be borne by the hands of the Free ! 



196 



MAY MORN SONG. 



The grass is wet with shining dews, 

Their silver bells hang on each tree, 
While opening flower and bursting bud 

Breathe incense forth unceasingly ; 
The mavis pipes in greenwood shaw, 

The throstle glads the spreading thorn. 
And cheerily the blythesome lark 
Salutes the rosy face of morn. 
'T is early prime; 

And hark ! hark ! hark ! 
His merry chime 
Chirrups the lark : 
Chirrup ! chirrup ! he heralds in 
The jolly sun with matin hymn. 

Come, come, my love ! and May-dews shake 
In pailfuls from each drooping bough ; 

They '11 give fresh lustre to the bloom. 
That breaks upon thy young cheek now. 



MAY MORN SONG. 197 

O'er hill and dale, o'er waste and wood, 

Aurora's smiles are streaming free; 
With earth it seems brave holyday, 
In heaven it looks high jubilee. 
And it is right. 

For mark, love, mark ! 
How bathed in light 
Chirrups the lark : 
Chirrup ! chirrup ! he upward flies, 
Like holy thoughts to cloudless skies. 

They lack all heart, who cannot feel 

The voice of heaven within them thrill. 
In summer morn, when mounting high 

This merry minstrel sings his fill. 
Now let us seek yon bosky dell 

Where brightest wild-flowers choose to be. 
And where its clear stream murmurs on. 
Meet type of our love's purity; 
No witness there. 

And o'er us hark ! 
High in the air 
Chirrups the lark : 
Chirrup ! chirrup ! away soars he. 
Bearing to heaven my vows to thee ! 



198 



THE BLOOM HATH FLED THY CHEEK, MARY. 



The bloom hath fled thy cheek, Mary, 
As spring's rath blossoms die. 

And sadness hath overshadowed now 
Thy once bright eye ; 

But, look on me, the prints of grief 
Still deeper lie. 

Farewell ! 

Thy lips are pale and mute, Mary, 

Thy step is sad and slow. 
The morn of gladness hath gone by 

Thou erst did know ; 
I, too, am changed like thee, and weep 

For very woe. 

Farewell ! 

It seems as 'twere but yesterday 
We were the happiest twain. 



THE BLOOM HATH FLED. 199 

When murmured sighs and joyous tears, 

Dropping hke rain, 
Discoursed my love, and told how loved 

I was again. 

Farewell ! 

'T was not in cold and measured phrase 

We gave our passion name ; 
Scorning such tedious eloquence, 

Our heart's fond flame 
And long-imprisoned feelings fast 

In deep sobs came. 
Farewell ! 

Would that our love had been the love 

That merest worldlings know. 
When passion's draught to our doomed lips 

Turns utter woe, 
And our poor dream of happiness 

Vanishes so ! 

Farewell ! 

But in the wreck of all our hopes, 
There 's yet some touch of bliss, 



200 THE BLOOM HATH FLED. 

Since fate robs not our wretchedness 

Of this last kiss : 
Despair, and love, and madness, meet 

In this, in this. 
Farewell ! 



'■■"■ ■'-'■''" — "- - ' 



201 



IN THE QUIET AND SOLEMN NIGHT. 



In the quiet and solemn night, 
When the moon is silvery bright. 
Then the screech-owl's eerie cry 
Mocks the beauties of the sky : 

Tu whit, tu whoo, 

Its wild halloo 
Doth read a drowsy homily. 

From yon old castle's chimneys tall, 
The bat on leathern sail doth fall 
In wanton- wise to skim the earth, 
And flout the mouse that gave it birth. 

Tu whit, tu whoo, 

That wild halloo 
Hath marred the little monster's mirth. 

Fond lovers seek the dewy vale, 

That swimmeth in the moonshine pale ; 



202 NIGHT. 

But maids ! beware, when in your ear 
The screech-owl screams so loud and clear 

Tu whit, tu whoo. 

Its wild halloo 
Doth speak of danger lurking near. 

It bids beware of murmured sigh, 
Of air-spun oath and wistful eye ; 
Of star that winks to conscious flower 
Through the roof of leaf-clad bower : 

Tu whit, tu whoo, 

That wild halloo 
Bids startled virtue own its power \ 



203 



THE VOICE OF LOVE. 



When shadows o'er the landscape creep, 
And twinkhng stars pale vigils keep; 
When flower-cups all with dewdrops gleam, 
And moonshine floweth like a stream ; 

Then is the hour 
That hearts which love no longer dream, — 

Then is the hour 
That the voice of love is a spell of power ! 

When shamefaced moonbeams kiss the lake, 
And amorous leaves sweet music wake ; 
When slumber steals o'er every eye, 
And Dian's self shines drowsily ; 

Then is the hour 
That hearts which love with rapture sigh, — 

Then is the hour 
That the voice of love is a spell of power ! 

When surly mastifis stint their howl. 
And swathed in moonshine nods the owl ; 



204 THE VOICE OF LOVE. 

When cottage-hearths are gUmmering low. 
And warder cocks forget to crow ; 

Then is the hour 
That hearts feel passion's overflow, — 

Then is the hour 
That the voice of love is a spell of power ! 

When stilly night seems earth's vast grave. 
Nor murmur comes from wood or wave ; 
When land and sea, in wedlock bound 
By silence, sleep in bliss profound; 

Then is the hour 
That hearts like living well-springs sound, - 

Then is the hour 
That the voice of love is a spell of power ! 



•^- ■■ --"-^^^^'^^■'^'^"fc^^'^giM'*^— 



205 



AWAY! AWAY! O, DO NOT SAY. 



Away ! away ! O, do not say 

He can prove false to me : 
Let me believe but this brief day 

In his fidelity ; 
Tell me, that rivers backward flow, 
That unsunned snows like fire-brands glow, 

I may believe that lay ; 
But never can believe that he 

Is false and fled away. 

Ill acted part ! ill acted part ! 

I knew his noble mind, 
He could not break a trusting heart, 

Nor leave his love behind ; 
Tell me yon sun will cease to rise. 
Or stars at night to gem the skies, 

I may believe such lay ; 
But never can believe that he 

Is false and fled away. 



206 AWAY ! AWAY ! O, DO NOT SAY. 

Can it be so 1 O, surely no ! 

Must I perforce believe 
That he I loved and trusted so, 

Vowed only to deceive ? 
Heap coals of fire on this lone head, 
Or in pure pity strike me dead, — 

'T were kindness, on the day 
That tells me one I loved so well. 

Is false, — is fled away ! 



207 



O AGONY! KEEN AGONY. 



O, AGONY ! keen agony, 

For trusting heart, to find 

That vows beheved, were vows conceived 

As Ught as summer wind. 

O, agony ! fierce agony, 

For loving heart to brook, 

In one brief hour the withering power 

Of unimpassioned look. 

O, agony ! deep agony, 
For heart that 's proud and high, 
To learn of fate how desolate 
It may be ere it die. 

O, agony ! sharp agony, 

To find how loth to part 

With the fickleness and faithlessness 

That break a trusting heart ! 



208 



THE SERENADE. 
— # — 

WakEj lady, wake ! 



Dear he'^rt, awake 

From slumbers light ; 
For 'neath thy bower, at this still hour, 

In harness bright, 
Lingers thine own true paramour, 

And chosen knight ! 

Wake, lady, wake ! 

Wake, lady, wake ! 

For thy loved sake. 

Each trembling star 
Smiles from on high with its clear eye, 

While nobler far 
Yon silvery shield lights earth and sky ; 

How good they are ! 

Wake, lady, wake ! 

Rise, lady, rise ! 
Not star-filled skies 
I worship now, 
A fairer shrine I trust is mine 
For loyal vow : 



- -^--^^ 



THE SERENADE. 209 

O that the Hving stars would shme 
That Kght thy brow ! 
Rise, lady, rise ! 

Rise, lady, rise 

Ere war's rude cries 

Fright land and sea ! 
To-morrow's light sees mail-sheathed knight, 

Even hapless me. 
Careering through the bloody fight 

Afar from thee ! 

Rise, lady, rise ! 

Mute, lady, mute 7 

I have no lute. 

Nor rebeck small 
To soothe thine ear with lay sincere. 

Or madrigal ; 
With helm on head and hand on spear. 

On thee I call ! 

Mute, lady, mute ! 

Mute, lady, mute 
To love's fond suit? 

14 



210 ' THE SERENADE. 

I'll not complain, 
Since underneath thy balmy breath 

I may remain 
One brief hour more ere I seek death 

On battle plain ! 

Mute, lady, mute ! 

Sleep, lady, sleep ! 

While watch I keep 

Till dawn of day : 
But o'er the wold now morning cold 

Shines icy gray ; 
While the plain gleams with steel and gold, 

And chargers neigh ! 

Sleep, lady, sleep ! 

Sleep, lady, sleep ! 

Nor wake to weep 

For heart-struck me : 
These trumpets knell my last farewell 

To love and thee ! 
When next they sound, 't will be to tell 

I died for thee ! 

Sleep, lady, sleep ! 



211 



COULD LOVE IMPART. 



Could love impart, 

By nicest art, 
To speechless rocks a tongue, — 

Their theme would be, 

Beloved, of thee, — 
Thy beauty, all their song. 

And, clerklike, then. 

With sweet amen. 
Would echo from each hollow 

Reply all day ; 

While gentle fay. 
With merry whoop, would follow. 

Had roses sense 

On no pretence 
Would they their buds unroll ; 

For, could they speak, 

'T was from thy cheek 
Their daintiest blush they stole. 

Had lilies eyes. 
With glad surprise. 



212 COULD LOVE IMPART. 

They 'd own themselves outdone, 
When thy pure brow 
And neck of snow, 

Gleamed in the morning sun. 

Could shining brooks, 

By amorous looks 
Be taught a voice so rare, 

Then, every sound 

That murmured round. 
Would whisper, ^ Thou art fair ! * 

Could winds be fraught 

With pensive thought 
At midnight's solemn hour, 

Then every wood, 

In gleeful mood, 
Would own thy beauty's power ! 

And could the sky 

Behold thine eye. 
So filled with love and light, 

In jealous haste, 

Thou soon wert placed 
To star the cope of Night ! 



213 



THE PARTING. 



O ! IS it thus we part, 
And thus we say farewell, 
As if in neither heart 
Affection e'er did dwell ? 
And is it thus we sunder 
Without or sigh or tear, 
As if it were a wonder 
We e'er held other dear? 

We part upon the spot, 
With cold and clouded brow. 
Where first it was our lot 
To breathe love's fondest vow ! 
The vow both then did tender 
Within this hallowed shade, — 
That vow, we now surrender, 
Heart-bankrupts both are made ! 

Thy hand is cold as mine, 
As lustreless thine eye ; 



214 THE PARTING. 



Thy bosom gives no sign 
That it could ever sigh ! 
Well, well ! adieu 's soon spoken 
'Tis but a parting phrase, 
Yet said, I fear, heart-broken 
We '11 live our after days ! 

Thine eye no tear will shed. 
Mine is as proudly dry ; 
But many an aching head 
Is ours before we die ! 
From pride we both can borrow, — 
To part we both may dare, — 
But the heart-break of to-morrow, 
Nor you nor I can bear ! 



niMm 



215 



LOVE'S DIET, 



Tell me, fair maidj tell me truly, 

How should infant love be fed ; 

If with dewdrops, shed so newly 

On the bright green clover blade ; 
Or, with roses plucked in July, 
And with honey liquored ? 
O, no ! O, no ! 
Let roses blow, 
And dew-stars to green blade cling : 
Other fare 
More light and rare. 
Befits that gentlest nursling. 

Feed him with the sigh that rushes 

'Twixt sweet lips, whose muteness speaks. 

With the eloquence that flushes 

All a heart's wealth o'er soft cheeks; 

Feed him with a world of blushes, 
And the glance that shuns, yet seeks : 



216 love's diet. 

For 'tis with food 



So light and good. 
That the Spirit child is fed; 

And with the tear 

Of joyous fear 
That the small Elf's liquored. 



217 



THE MIDNIGHT WIND. 



Mournfully ! O, mournfully 

This midnight wind doth sigh, 
Like some sweet plaintive melody 

Of ages long gone by : 
It speaks a tale of other years, — 

Of hopes that bloomed to die, — 
Of sunny smiles that set in tears, 

And loves that mouldering lie ! 

Mournfully ! O, moLirnfully 

This midnight wind doth moan ; 
It stirs some chord of memory 

In each dull heavy tone : 
The voices of the much-loved dead 

Seem floating thereupon, — 
All, all my fond heart cherished 

Ere death hath made it lone. 

Mournfully ! O, mournfully 
This midnight wind doth swell, 

15 



218 THE MIDNIGHT WIND. 

With its quaint pensive minstrelsy 

Hope's passionate farewell 
To the dreamy joys of early years, 

Ere yet griefs canker fell 
On the heart's bloom, — ay ! well may tears 

Start at that parting knell ! 



li^iliL 



219 



LINES GIVEN TO A FRIEND, 

A DAY OR TWO BEFORE THE DECEASE OF THE WRITER. 

October, 1835. 



When I beneath the cold red earth am sleeping. 

Life's fever o'er, 
Will there for me be any bright eye weeping 

That I 'm no more ? 
Will there be any heart still memory keeping 

Of heretofore? 

When the great winds through leafless forests rush- 
ing, 
Sad music make ; 
When the swollen streams, o'er crag and gully 
gushing, 
Like full hearts break, 
Will there then one whose heart despair is crushing 
Mourn for my sake ? 

When the bright sun upon that spot is shining 

With purest ray. 
And the small flowers their buds and blossoms 
twining. 



220 LINES GIVEN TO A FRIEND. 

Burst through that clay ; 
Will there be one still on that spot repining 
Lost hopes all day ? 

When no star twinkles with its eye of glory, 

On that low mound ; 
And wintry storms have with their ruins hoary 

Its loneness crowned ; 
Will there be then one versed in misery's story 

Pacing it round 7 

It may be so, — but this is selfish sorrow 

To ask such meed, — 
A weakness and a wickedness to borrow 

From hearts that bleed. 
The wailings of to-day, for what to-morrow 

Shall never need. 

Lay me then gently in my narrow dwelling 

Thou gentle heart ; 
And though thy bosom should with grief be swelling, 

Let no tear start ; 
It were in vain, — for Time hath long been knelling — 

Sad one, depart ! 



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